


Lie To Me

by maydei



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Heroes: Volume 5, Love/Hate, Minor Violence, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Superheroes, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 114,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 3x13 "Dual", following through canon. </p><p>"Say it again," he mumbled. "Lie to me."<br/>And Claire stuttered out in a broken voice, "I want you to stop." </p><p>A catalyst to a complex series of disasters and miracles that change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lie To Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my most popular works over on FFN, so I thought I'd send it on over here to AO3. I'm mostly gonna be copy-pasting, so there will still probably be some typos, but I'll catch them as I can.

Claire sighed, making her way up the stairs to her room in the Petrelli mansion- it had been just over a week since the fiasco at Pinehearst, and she had been jittery ever since. Sylar was alive and she knew it- she didn't know how, but she was positive that he was out there, just watching, waiting for the opportunity to strike again. That very notion had kept her awake nearly every night since she watched Primatech burn to the ground- would probably keep her up again tonight, since it was already approaching midnight.

Turning the door handle, Claire entered her room and reached for the light switch. The dim bulbs flickered on overhead just as the door slammed closed behind her. She glanced behind her in alarm before she turned back, her face contorting in hate and fear when she saw the familiar man that was lounging on her bed.

"Sylar," Claire spat. "I knew it. How did you survive? What the hell are you doing here?"

And then she realized the shadows under his eyes, the slightly-disheveled style of his hair and the way his arms were crossed protectively over his chest. "Claire."

Treading carefully to the other side of the large, comfortable room, Claire repeated, "Sylar, what are you doing here?"

Sylar leaned his head back with a heavy _thud_ against the wall, eyes closing and showing the full extent of his obvious insomnia. "I just wanted to know if everyone is a liar. I thought that I should come to you- you're always the person to give me the answers I need."

Claire frowned, sitting precariously on the edge of her vanity bench, fists clenched and resting atop her legs. "What are you talking about?"

He sighed heavily, one dark brown eye opening and looking to her. "My entire life is a lie. Everyone I've ever known has lied to me. I need to know that it's not just bad luck- that e _veryone_ lies." He sat up from his seat, sitting cross-legged on her bed, facing her. One of his hands traced the elaborate embroidery of her crimson coverlet, his eyes flickering to it before they came back to rest on her. "Lie to me, Claire," he whispered. "Please."

She scowled, tensing and moving back on the cushioned seat, staying as far as she could from him. "Get out of here, Sylar. I'm not going to encourage your honesty complex. I _should_ be calling Angela- I don't know why I'm not."

Sylar's hand clenched- nothing. No tingling. She hadn't lied at all. "Just lie to me, Claire. And then I'll leave."

"I don't want to lie. I just want you to go."

He scowled, anger flashing across his face. "You know, I could make you. I don't have to be nice about this. You'd be better off just cooperating."

Claire's lip curled. "What exactly are you hoping to hear, Sylar? That part of me is actually _happy_ that you're not dead?"

Sylar frowned as he waited... and waited. But nothing came. Nothing at all. "You're not lying." His eyes narrowed in confusion. "I don't understand."

Green eyes widened at the implication, lips parting slightly as she searched for words that would not come. "But I..."

"You thought that you were," he answered for her, head tilting to the side. "So... perhaps you're lying to yourself." His lips twitched into a smirk. "I didn't know you cared so much."

She snorted. "I don't like you, Sylar. All I care about is keeping you in line."

Sylar's smirk grew, and one tan hand reached out, fingers twitching, and Claire stood involuntarily. "Hey- let me go, you sick bastard!"

"I don't think so." Claire struggled against his control as he brought her forward, sitting her opposite of him on her bed, both cross-legged and facing each other. She growled in irritation as one finger brushed across her knee, then shivered at the touch. "How does that feel?"

Determined not to give in, not to lie, she hissed, "Strange- it tickles. Don't touch me!"

"I told you that I could _make_ you lie," Sylar replied, voice low and soft, eyes watching her carefully as he traced circles on her calf. "And I will. I have to know, Claire."

"Why not anyone else?" the blonde growled, trying desperately to move away, but unable to do so under the force of Eric Doyle's ability. "Why me?"

He shrugged a little, brown eyes downcast to watch the progress of his hand along her denim-clothed leg. "Because, when I think about it, you're the only person that comes to mind that I don't think has ever lied to me. And I want you to. I want to know that it's not my fault... that I couldn't help being lied to. Not that I was just a fool for trusting the wrong people."

"Everyone feels like that sometimes," she replied. "Because everyone lies."

"But not you," he countered. "You've never lied to me."

"But I _have_ lied to other people," Claire argued. "My father. Nathan. Angela. The Haitian. My mother."

Sylar frowned, and Claire could see the confusion that flickered across his face. "Then why _not_ me?"

It was Claire's turn to shrug, averting her eyes uncomfortably as his hand skimmed up to her outer thigh. "Because I don't see the point. You would know if I lied, because of your abilities- and I'm a terrible liar anyway. Why bother? I might as well just tell the truth. It would get me in less trouble... and it hurts less."

Brown eyes flickered up to meet green, and Sylar's face was abruptly serious, desperation lingering in his eyes. "Claire, if I released you from Doyle's ability right now, would you try to run?"

She was silent for a moment, considering his question before she murmured, "No."

Immediately, she felt a heavy weight lift off her shoulders. Even knowing that she could run, she didn't try- she didn't _want_ to try. And, somewhere deep underneath, she wanted to help. Somehow.

"Do you hate me?" Sylar asked quietly, his hand stilling, hand open and resting above her knee.

Claire sighed, shoulders slumping a bit when she replied, "I'm not sure. I used to. Now... I'm angry. I'm really pissed about what you did to me, what you did to Peter and how you took my mom... Meredith... away. But, at the same time, I can't exactly blame you." Her fingers twitched, and she struggled internally with herself before she finally rested her hand atop his. "Because it wasn't entirely your fault. They could have stopped you from being who you were, but they just egged you on. But your decisions are your own, at the same time. Even if they're influenced by the side-effect of your ability. So... I guess I don't hate you. In fact, I kind of feel sorry for you."

He couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped him a few seconds later. "I'm not sure whether I should be happy or sad. You don't hate me, but you feel sorry for me... I have all these abilities, Claire, but next to you, I've never felt so weak. So insignificant." He ran his other hand over his aching eyes. "I wanted to be special, but with you, I feel like I'm back to where I started."

"But you _are_ special," Claire replied incredulously, frowning. "You're one of us. You have an ability. How many abilities or the strength of the abilities you have doesn't matter. The most important thing is that you understand what it's like to be different, to have a secret."

Sylar stared at her like she was insane. "You're saying that you don't care about power at all?"

She shrugged. "Well, my ability is stupid. It doesn't do anything. What I'm saying is that it's not so much about the ability, but being able to share a secret with someone. My dad doesn't have an ability, but he's still just as important to me as Peter, because I can talk to him."

"Your ability isn't stupid!" Sylar protested, grabbing her hand in both of his own, eyes wide and surprisingly earnest. "You can never die, Claire. You can't be hurt, can't be injured. You can't even feel pain- you're perfect."

"Feeling pain is a gift," Claire replied, drawing her knees up to her chest, but allowing him to keep his grasp on her hand. "It was the only thing that made me feel human, once I started healing. Then I lost it, and now I've forgotten what it feels like... to feel."

Sylar considered her for a moment before he tugged on her hand, sending her sprawling forward into him. He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her into his lap, despite her surprised and alarmed protesting. When he finally had Claire settled, he hesitated for only a moment before he brought his hand to her face, stroking his thumb over her cheekbone. Claire froze in his grasp, her eyes locked with his, green against brown, confusion against desperation.

"Can you feel this?" Sylar asked, his deep, soft voice the only disruption of the silence.

And she could- possibly more than anything she had ever felt. She felt the slow path of his thumb, the slight callus on his skin, the warmth that his body radiated into hers from that one small touch. Where their skin was connected, hers tingled like touched by electricity, prickling like when a limb fell asleep, except without the hint of pain.

Claire's mouth opened and she searched for the words to reply with, but nothing came to mind other than a whispered, "Yes."

He hummed thoughtfully, biting softly at his bottom lip, and Claire realized for the first time how _attractive_ the man actually was- lightly tanned with a strong, angled jaw. Teeth that were straight, sharp and white, intimidating to some when he showed them. A slender, defined body, hidden behind a black shirt and dark-wash jeans. Black hair, healthy and carelessly styled, a few strands fallen out of place, hanging in eyes that were so deep a brown that they were nearly black. They were fathomless, expressive and always intense with whatever emotion he was feeling inside- no matter the role he was playing or the person he was pretending to be, his eyes always gave him away.

And Claire was trapped under the weight of his gaze.

Entranced.

And she was fairly sure that her heart would beat right out of her chest.

"What are you thinking about right now?" He asked, brushing a stray curl from her eyes before his hand returned to its casual- and yet, terribly intimate- touch.

Claire swallowed, fighting the urge to shiver when his eyes watched the movement of her throat. "You."

His lips twitched upwards a slight bit, and he hummed again. "What _about_ me?"

She surprised both him and herself when she leaned into his hand, eyelids closing slightly and replying, "I'm wondering how you're doing this to me. What ability you're using to make me feel like this, to make my heart beat so fast... to make me _want_ this."

He blinked, then frowned... before his mouth opened in surprise. "You're not lying. You really _do_ want..."

She nodded just barely, her fingers raising to touch his wrist. His hand opened in response, molding to the contours of her cheek, curls brushing against his fingers. "So," she asked. "Which one is it?"

"I'm not using one," he answered, eyes unusually open and vulnerable.

"I'm not sure if I believe that," Claire replied, her heart speeding even further at the thought... that it might even be possible to feel this way without being manipulated... and with _Sylar_ , of all people.

He sighed, leaning down to rest their foreheads together, her eyes half-mast and alluring, connected solidly with his in such a direct way that it made a thrill start in his gut. "I'm not lying," Sylar murmured. "I wish I could prove it to you."

"You can," Claire breathed. "Just..."

His arm around her tightened, and the hand that held her face still began to move, fingers tracing the fluttering vein down the side of her neck before coming to rest at her throat. Long, thin fingers curled around it, but applied no pressure. Claire glanced at his arm before she looked back to him. Though she couldn't die and couldn't feel pain, her breath still shallowed in alarm, though it did nothing to deter her- or him.

His pupils dilated, brown fading into black, desperate and crazed and gorgeous, and she felt his fingers twitch in reflex against her neck, felt the temptation that he felt to kill her, the urge to hurt her if she didn't cooperate.

The _need_ to know the truth.

"Tell me," he whispered hoarsely. "Tell me that you want me to, Claire. God, please just _mean_ it, and I will."

Claire swallowed, and Sylar's fingers twitched again in response, a soft, frustrated noise escaping from deep within his chest.

"Claire," Sylar repeated- _demanded_. " _Tell me._ "

And, suddenly, she smiled, leaning forward enough so their noses touched and, when she spoke, their lips brushed together. " _I don't want you to."_

His eyes held hers, though she could see the anger brewing in them, his hand starting to put pressure on her neck-

And then Sylar shuddered. His eyes narrowed in confusion, before comprehension dawned on him. His hand tightened before it relaxed, and slipped from its position around her throat to the back of her neck. He jerked her forward, their mouths crushing together and lips parting and tongues meeting.

Claire moaned softly into his mouth, her hands sliding into his hair, legs moving apart so she could straddle his lap. His hips bucked upwards, and she let out another sound as she felt him, felt the proof of his arousal, of his interest and desire for her. She rolled her hips in response, denim-on-denim causing beautiful friction, excitement shooting through her gut when he growled, rolling her over onto her back.

He slid between her jean-clad legs, one hand resting on her waist where her purple t-shirt had ridden up, the other resting behind her head on her pillow. Claire tilted her head in order to kiss him better, raising her hips into his again, grinning to herself when he gasped harshly into her mouth and scraped his nails against her skin.

"Shit," she whispered into the kiss, arching both toward him and away, all at the same time. " _Sylar._ "

"Say it again," he mumbled. "Lie to me."

And Claire stuttered out in a broken voice, " _I want you to stop._ "

His eyes squeezed closed and a shudder wracked his whole body, transferring through her. He slipped his hand under the edge of her t-shirt, hissing, "Aah... _fuck_ , Claire, I want you."

Claire arched up suddenly when he scraped his nails across her midriff, scrapes reddening before fading, gone by the time he'd pushed her shirt up to just below her breasts. His mouth tore away from hers, attaching to her neck and leaving dark, suckling bruises, biting down every time she clawed at his back.

"Shit, shit, shit..." Claire whispered, tossing her head back and closing her eyes. "Unh... _Sylar._ Shit. It feels..."

He pulled away from her with a feral grin. "Good?"

"Mmm... yeah." Her eyes opened again, feeling the bruises on her neck fade from a deep red back to golden tan.

One wide, warm hand splayed over her stomach, and Sylar pushed himself to his knees, his eyes gazing over her body. His eyes lingered where her jeans hugged low on her hips, hipbones exposed and paler than the rest of her. He brushed his knuckles over them before he leaned down, pressing his lips to the hollow just beside one, then moving his way up to her slender stomach.

He left soft, quick kisses across the canvas of her belly, making her squeak and squirm when his warm breath fell across her skin. It was only when his tongue traced the base of her ribcage that she sighed, whimpering when he blew on the skin and it immediately turned cold.

"So, I'm, uh, thinking," Claire panted as his fingers traced her sides. "That, if I'm telling the truth, then you- _ahh, damnit-_ should, too."

"If you have questions, ask away," he replied with a smirk, nuzzling near her bellybutton before he pulled back, leaving her shirt where it was- breasts still covered and stomach exposed- and moving to her jeans. His fingers worked at the button fly, popping two of the four before she could speak again.

"Did you know, when you came here, that this was gonna happen?" Claire tensed when his hand accidentally brushed the softness of her red cotton panties, plain and simple. Innocent.

"No," Sylar admitted with a sharp laugh, moving to the third button. "Hell no. I just came to prove a point- that all people are liars. I didn't think that things would end up like this..." He hesitated, hands stilling before moving again. "Though, I'll admit, it's a nice development."

Claire gasped when his hands moved to the last button, closing her eyes tightly. "Are you doing this because I'm my father's daughter, then?"

"No," he answered. "I'm doing this because you are a beautiful, powerful girl that has no idea of her potential, and because I'm absolutely addicted to you. Like a drug, except more powerful- maybe even more so than the Hunger. The fact that you're Noah Bennet's daughter is just an added bonus. Maybe a curse, if you want to see it that way."

The last button popped open, and with it came violent butterflies in Claire's stomach. "Do you even care about me? Or is this just a game?"

Long fingers hooked in her belt loops, tugging sharply down to peel the fabric from slender legs. "I don't know if I care, Claire, but that's because I don't know how. But I _know_ that I feel something when I'm around you- and that's _something_ , at least."

He stopped when the pants reached her ankles, for just long enough to pull her tennis shoes and socks from her feet, kicking his own off in the process. Then, he pulled the denim from her legs and tossed them aside, pressing a gentle kiss to the sensitive curve of her calf, and allowed his hands to slide over firm muscles and soft, slender thighs.

His eyes met hers in hesitation, and after a second, she nodded just barely. His hand paused for only a moment before they brushed over the front of her panties. Claire's hips raised instinctively, and he was filled with insistent _need_ when he felt the slight dampness there. "God, Claire," he murmured, leaning down to press their mouths together again and pulling away when he felt hands at his own shirt.

Sylar looked at her questioningly when she scowled, sitting up and pulling at his t-shirt. He suddenly understood, helping her pull it over his head and throwing it to land on the floor with her pants. Dainty hands touched every ridge of solid muscle, skimmed over the sparse hair before her hand lay flat against his chest-

Against his heart.

"It feels the same as mine," she said quietly. "Strong and steady. Quick. Nervous. But it's eternal, like mine, too." She looked to him, and for the first time, it was Claire who was vulnerable before his eyes. "When it's over, are you going to be done with me?"

He frowned, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "We don't have to if you don't-"

"I want to," Claire insisted, and he felt no trace of a lie. "I just want to know if this will be the only time."

His expression darkened at the thought. "I don't know if once will be enough. I... desire... your company. Intimately, as well as not. And if I taste something once, I almost always want it again and again..." His throat contracted and relaxed. "Claire, there's just one thing I want you to know."

"Hm?" She asked, feeling his heartbeat against her palm.

He closed his eyes. "I'm not going to change for you, Claire. I'm still going to kill... and, when the time comes, you're going to have to stop me to prove yourself to your family. In any way possible."

The thought of shoving glass into his skull again made her feel sick, just like she had that night, watching the building burn and wondering if she would someday be the only one left on the planet, forever seventeen.

"And you'll have to pretend that I'm the enemy. You'll have to hate me, but... if you can do that, and if you can pretend that's the truth every time we meet until that day, then... maybe it could work out, somehow."

"I don't know if I could ever hate you again," Claire murmured, leaning forward to nuzzle his neck, nudging her nose up under his jaw and sighing when he rested his chin atop her head. "But, if that's what you want... I'll show them exactly what they want to see."

"Good girl," Sylar replied, pulling away enough so he could bend to kiss her again. Claire hummed into his mouth, allowing him to push her onto her back once more. She lifted her arms so he could remove her shirt, crossing them over herself when he turned to toss it aside.

He frowned at her, obviously not pleased. "Claire, don't start that." He reached for her, moving the thin strap of her bra off her shoulder and brushing blonde curls from golden skin.

She pouted, turning her head away, a dark blush coloring her cheeks. "Well, it's not like I'm used to this..."

His head tilted to the side, surveying her stance before understanding kicked in. He pulled away from her, eyes wide and almost horrified. "Claire, you... you've never been with anyone like this before, have you?"

She shook her head, little more than a minute movement that was barely detectable.

"Damn it, Claire," he breathed. "You should have said something. I... I shouldn't be the person that..."

At that, she pushed herself up, reaching for him as he drew away. "Sylar, stop."

He froze. "But, Claire..."

"No." She grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him back to her with a surprising amount of strength. "This is my life, and I can make my own decisions. I want you to be the first, and I..." She paused, sighing, and tugged him close. He balanced on all fours above her, their eyes meeting uncertainly, and Claire continued. "I don't want it to be anyone else."

He sighed, lowering himself so their bodies fit together, toying with the straps of her bra. He rested his forehead against hers, rolling one of her curls around his finger. "Why not?"

She was almost positive that the breath had left her body, their chests pressed together, legs tangling and feeling her heart beat against his. "Because you know me for who I am... and because you'll always be there."

"I'm not a hero, Claire," he reminded her gently. "I probably won't be there when you need me."

"But you'll be there for forever." Claire reached up, pushing his hair back from his eyes. "And _that's_ when I'm going to need you. Otherwise, I can take care of myself."

Sylar laughed quietly. "I suppose so."

"Now, sit up," Claire said with a sly smile, pushing lightly on his shoulders. "You're wearing far too many clothes."

He hummed his agreement, letting her roll them over so she was on top. His hands settled at her waist when she straddled his hips, watching as she bit her lip in concentration as she worked to pop open the button on his jeans.

"Stupid..." she mumbled. "Stupid thing. I can't..."

He laughed at her reaction, covering her hands with his and helping her free the stubborn piece of brass from the buttonhole. "It's alright."

"Lift your hips," Claire demanded impatiently. "And help me get these off you."

"Alright, alright," Sylar replied, smiling faintly. "Be patient."

"Well _excuse_ _me_ for not wanting to get caught," Claire growled. "Because Angela could show up, you know, like, any time. Or Peter. Or the Haitian. And that wouldn't exactly be a good thing."

"Don't worry about it," the man said, shifting to pull his jeans off, leaving him bare but for his boxer-briefs. "We won't get caught." He tapped his temple. "Powers, Claire. They're wonderful things."

"But-"

"Hush." He grabbed her around the waist, moving her farther up the bed, despite her indignant grumblings. He kissed her quiet, twisting his fingers into her hair and holding her there until she gave in. Her body relaxed back against her pillows and her eyes cracked open, sighing when he pulled away, her foot tracing idly back and forth across his calf.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, shaking her head slightly and eyes falling closed. "I'm just scared, I guess."

"Claire, I told you that we don't have to do anything. I can wait for you for as long as it takes."

"Not _that_ kind of scared," she sighed. "Well, maybe a little. More scared about my father finding out about... whatever this is." She chewed at her kiss-swollen lips, green eyes honestly nervous and almost... worried. "And what if something happens? Something... unexpected."

He shook his head with a slight smile, kissing her once, twice, and once more. "Don't worry so much, Claire. If something happens..." His smile faded slightly. "We'll cross that bridge if we should come to it. Okay?"

Claire swallowed, exhaling sharply and forcing a smile, leaning up to kiss him quickly before she replied, "Okay."

"Okay," he repeated, smile returning as he slipped a hand between them, fingers skimming over the front of her bra- Claire shivered at the indirect touch. "Feel good?"

"Yeah," she breathed, arching up slightly when his hand went to her back, the other slipping under her after a moment. He scowled, fingers fumbling with the clasp of her bra, and Claire grinned.

"Having some difficulty?" the blonde asked with a cocky grin.

He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't possibly be annoyed by her when she looked like that- grinning widely, cheeks flushed and hair a bit disheveled, leaning back on her elbows and clothed only in thin cotton panties and a mismatched bra, the straps falling off her shoulders. He tugged again at the offensive garment, the warmth bubbling through him making anything more than touching her insanely difficult.

"Not fun, is it?" Claire reached behind herself, unfastening the clasp and laying back as he practically ripped it from her body.

"Shut up, Claire," he growled, attaching their mouths together as he palmed her bare breast, squeezing slightly and making her arch up into him. Rough, callused fingers found the pert bud of her nipple, rolling it between his fingers.

A loud, throaty moan escaped the petite blonde, and her nails dug into his sides. Sylar winced, biting down on her lip hard enough to break the skin. However, the cut was gone before he could sooth it over with his tongue, leaving only the sharp tang of blood behind.

There was something about that violent and strangely erotic addition that finally drove him over the edge, fingers twitching out of reflex, the sides of her underwear- and a bit of skin- sliced. He pulled the scrap of fabric away, leaving her completely bare under his hungry gaze, a few sticky drops of red smudged at her hips. Short, blonde curls were her only protection now, slightly coarse when he tentatively touched them, but no less appealing, by any means.

"Claire..." Sylar breathed, one hand tracing the curves and dips of her body. "You are absolutely beautiful. Flawless. Perfect."

She shifted, both embarrassed and flattered, but she smiled and reached for him, sitting up and kissing him. Her hands pushed his hair back from his face, smoothed over his shoulders and down his chest, finally settling at his hips and toying with the waistband of his boxers, the final barrier between them. He groaned at the feeling of her soft hands against his skin, combined with his anticipation of finally, _finally_ being with her.

He pulled back just barely, brushing his lips over the corner of her mouth, her cheeks, forehead, eyelids, and the tip of her nose, smiling slightly when Claire broke out into a fit of giggling. Then, as soon as it had come, she had stopped, her eyes meeting his uncertainly before she carefully started pushing the garment down his hips.

His hands covered hers, helping her to remove his boxers, gasping and hissing under his breath when the elastic waistband dragged against his aching erection. Claire averted her eyes, sinking her teeth into her lip and badly suppressing a violent shudder when she heard his quiet noises. Sylar, seeing her discomfort, gently pushed her hands away and completed the task himself, left completely bare and shivering in the mild air of Claire's room.

Reaching out to her, he brushed his fingertips over her collarbone, skimming over her breast and tracing the dips of her ribs, following the natural curve of her body to her hips. His thumb stroked over one of the slightly protruding bones there, humming quietly in response to her soft whimper. "Claire, look at me."

Her eyes hesitantly raised to his and she worried her lip between her teeth, stopping only when his other hand raised to rub his thumb over her mouth. His eyes darkened when her lips parted, carefully taking hold of his finger between her teeth and sucking it into her mouth.

"God, you gorgeous, gorgeous girl," he murmured, pulling his hand from her and covering her mouth with his own. Claire hardened her resolve when she felt that kiss, and slowly lowered her hand to rest against his abdomen, pulling her mouth away, looking for affirmation that she was okay, that she would be accepted.

"Claire, you don't have to-" Sylar started when he realized what she was intending, the rest of that statement cut off by his shuddering moan when her fingers brushed his straining cock. "Oh _god_ , Claire."

Her mouth curved into a small smile, her confidence boosted by his reaction, her hand taking hold of the flushed organ and giving it a firm stroke. " _'Feel good?'_ " she asked, grinning when she realized that she'd finally turned the tables on him.

"You have n- _no idea_ ," he breathed. "Jesus, Claire you have to stop."

Her smile fell. "Am I doing it wrong?" she asked quietly.

"No, no, no," he replied quickly. "You're doing it _right_ , Claire. Very right. It's just the fact that it's _you_... you're driving me crazy. You have to stop if you want this to go any further."

"Okay," she replied, allowing him to push her hand away. He reached for her, but she grabbed his hand before it could touch her heated skin. "Don't- I don't want to wait anymore, and it won't hurt, either way."

He swallowed, his eyes locked with hers when he said, "I don't have a..."

"I don't care," Claire whispered. "Just be with me."

"Are you sure?"

Claire rolled her eyes, reaching up and linking her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their bodies were pressed flush together- stomach to stomach, chest to chest, heartbeat against pounding heartbeat. "More sure than I've ever been about anything. You're the one thing that I can have to myself... the one person who understands how I work, without fail."

He nodded in understanding, pulling back just enough to guide himself to the entrance of her body, shuddering at the feeling. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," she whispered breathlessly, lifting her hips to push him closer.

They both moaned as he pushed himself forward, slipping inside and not stopping until he was fully sheathed inside her.

Claire's chest heaved as she took in oxygen, her body by no means in pain but uncomfortable with the feeling of being stretched. She shifted her hips in an effort to find comfort, suddenly stilled when Sylar gripped her hips, hissing, "Wait a second, Claire."

"Okay," she whispered, not able to stop the trembling of her body as she slowly started to adjust to the feeling of him being within her.

"Fuck," he growled under his breath. "So tight... so hot. Feels so good."

"Good to know," the blonde breathed, resting her head back and closing her eyes.

Without warning, he began to pull back, slowly sliding out and leaving Claire feeling empty- at least until his hips snapped forward, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through her body that fizzled like lightening, a quiet cry escaping her mouth and a sharp snarl escaping his.

Claire whined softly, shifting her hips again in search of that feeling. Her skin was tingling all over, and though she'd heard the girls at all her past schools speak of sex before, she never imagined that it was like _this._

"Sylar," she gasped, clinging to him when he repeated the motion, her arms linking together around his back and her nails digging into his skin. Blood welled up from the scratches, but Sylar didn't seem to mind it- in fact, the pain seemed to make the force of his hips increase.

"Move with me, Claire," the dark-haired man ordered, his hands finding their way to her hips and aiding her as she arched up into him. "Mmm, yeah, that's it."

Claire threw her head back as their rhythm grew faster, no longer entirely in control of her body and not entirely sure that he was, either. At this point, she didn't really care, as long as the intoxicating friction between them didn't stop anytime soon.

Pleasure was rolling and churning and bubbling in her stomach, slowly starting to boil over and Claire wasn't sure how long she could hold it back. "Sylar," Claire moaned, her voice cracking halfway through his name. "God, _please_ don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it, Babydoll," he growled, blue sparks pulsing from his hands sporadically, burning her skin and electrifying her entire body.

Claire's back arched off the bed with a hoarse shout, legs wrapping around his waist and biting down hard on his shoulder to keep herself quiet. Sylar snarled out a curse, pushing up to his knees and using them as leverage for a new angle, one that had Claire's vision bursting with colors and sounds blurring together.

And then Sylar leaned down to her, nipping at the shell of her ear before he choked out, " _My name is Gabriel."_

Through the haze of her mind, this sentence somehow seemed to compute, despite the impending sensory overload that was sure and soon to come. Claire's jade-green eyes opened halfway, locking with his, black and fathomless and expectant and watching her with unrestrained lust as she writhed beneath him.

"Gabriel!" Claire yelled, and the pleasure exploded outward, filling her painless body with more sensation than she had ever felt or even thought that she _could_ feel. The colors washed over her until they melted and mixed into one, a solid white that completely took over her vision and body and left nothing behind but the man above her.

Sylar shuddered, his body tensing beyond the point of pain, leaving him a mass of sensation that was completely controlled by the blonde woman he was buried within. Claire's every touch shot feelings through him that he'd never imagined existed- the feelings that he always assumed were exaggerated by those who had ever felt affection or care or love for another.

They reached and came down from their high together- Sylar gasping for every breath and Claire completely lost, eyes open but unseeing, body shaking even still from the force of her orgasm. Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen and parted, long, golden curls spread over her pillows, and Sylar thought that she was the single most beautiful woman he'd ever seen- intimately or otherwise.

He pushed his bangs back from his eyes, leaning down to kiss her and feeling her respond, but only barely. Her lips were a whisper against his, her fingertips touching his cheek for a moment before they fell, her head leaning back and her eyes closing, breathing slowing to a moderate pace.

He smiled to himself- she'd fallen asleep. That realization made him immeasurably proud of himself- but he still needed to take care of her. He knew for a fact that allowing himself to fall asleep now, no matter how wonderful that option sounded, would provide a potentially messy hassle later. He carefully drew away from the sleeping girl, not bothering to cover himself as he crossed to her en suite bathroom, cleaning himself off before he dampened a hand towel and returned to her side.

As he cleaned the unconscious woman off, he wondered why he even bothered- before tonight, he never saw the need to look out for anyone but himself. However, Claire...

Claire was different. She was the one victim who wasn't a victim. The one person that wasn't _just_ another person. And before tonight, she'd hated him, despised him. But now... she'd given him everything, and asked for so little in return. It wasn't fair, really. He wanted to give it all to her, wanted to stay with her, but his dark past and dim future would only cause her trouble and pain.

It was for that reason that he had to leave.

He returned to the bathroom, placing the towel in the hamper and crossing back into her room. He sat at the edge of her bed, frowning, thoughts racing through his head.

_She's glowing,_ he thought, cupping her cheek in his hand. _She's such a beautiful girl. I don't want to leave her, but I should._ But the lingering exhaustion weighed his body down, and Sylar found that he couldn't move.

He sighed, forcing himself to stand and about to leave before he felt a hand clasp around his. He turned in surprise, his eyes meeting green, and the insistent woman tugged at his hand again.

"What is it, Claire?" Sylar asked.

"Stay," she replied simply.

He frowned at her, but sat again at the edge of the bed. "...I shouldn't."

"Do it anyway." Sleepy but determined, she pulled at his hand once more. "Please."

He chewed at the inside of his cheek, contemplating, but her vulnerable and hopeful gaze won him over. He pulled the sheets aside for her to slip under, following closely to embrace her from behind. His telekinesis reached out to turn off the lights before his hands twined with hers, settling on her stomach and tracing a careful arc around her belly button with his thumb.

"Thank you," Claire whispered through the dark, leaning her head back to tuck under his chin.

"For what?" Sylar asked softly.

"For being here. For making me into who I am today." Claire paused, obviously considering something before she tilted her head back even more, green eyes looking at him upside-down, looking surprisingly feline when illuminated by the dim moonlight that streamed through her curtained windows. "For taking my ability."

"You always hated that I took it from you," he reminded her. "That I took away your pain, that I took what was yours by birth."

"Maybe," she agreed. "But, now, you can be with me. And I don't feel so alone. We can be together, if you want to be..."

"I want it, Babydoll, maybe more than anything I've ever wanted before," Sylar mumbled through the darkness, her newfound nickname escaping him before he realized, far too late for him to draw it back.

"But...?" Claire asked, a faint smile pulling at her lips at his little slip, vowing to remember the way that name rolled from his tongue for the future.

He grimaced- she could always read him so well. "But, that can't happen now. I have to leave, both to find my answers and protect you from suspicion. No one can know what happened here tonight, Claire. No one. They can't know about us- you'll have to do whatever it takes to convince them that you hate me."

"Like I said before," she replied. "I'll show them what they want to see."

He sighed, nuzzling her temple and closing his eyes and said, "Sleep, Claire. You're exhausted."

Claire laughed under her breath. "And whose fault is that?"

His lips curled in a smirk. "I suppose it would be mine..." Sylar murmured and breathed into her ear, "...but you started it."

"If you say so," she replied with a roll of her eyes, settling back into him and eyelids finally sliding closed. "But I'm glad I did."

 

* * *

 

Claire awoke when the room was faintly tinged with gray- no longer nighttime, but not early enough to be called dawn. She blinked blearily, wondering what had woken her before her eyes settled on a man that was headed toward her window.

"You weren't going to say goodbye?"

He turned with a frown, eyes softening when they landed on her. "How long have you been awake?"

"Only a few seconds," she answered. "But long enough to know what you were planning."

Sylar hesitated before he made his way to her side, footsteps silent against the carpeted floor. "I just thought it would be easier," he sighed, crouching by the side of her bed.

"Easier for you, maybe," Claire grumbled. "But it wouldn't have been easy for me, waking up alone and wondering if it was all a dream."

Sylar pushed her hair away from her eyes, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "Better to wake and wonder than know and regret."

"I'll never regret it," Claire vowed, moving closer to the edge of the bed, her palm resting against his cheek. "What happened between us, what we did last night was beautiful, Sylar, whether or not you think so. I'll never regret it and never forget it, no matter how old I live to be."

He smiled a little, turning his face into her hand and kissing her palm. "I won't forget it, either. I just wasn't sure how you would feel about it... I'm not exactly a good man, Claire."

"So I've been told," she replied in a whisper, hand falling to rest against his neck, feeling his pulse against her fingertips. "...how do I know that this is real?"

Sylar frowned, pulling away and standing, a slight glint catching his eye. He made his way to her vanity, where several silver rings were tucked at the back. He picked up one and turned it in his hand- just a simple band, probably steel. A faint smile pulled at his lips, and Robert Bishop's ability turned the circlet to gold. Inspecting the simple band, he looked to the empty inside and frowned, finger moving minutely before he returned to her, crouching and sliding the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

Claire glanced at her hand, eyes widening, before she looked back to him. "I'm not exactly sure how I should feel about this," she admitted honestly. "Or what this even means."

"Just think of it as a promise," Sylar murmured, sliding one hand into her hair and tugging her closer. Claire's eyes slipped closed just as their mouths met, kissing him slowly, leisurely, but her heart speeding all the same.

"A promise?" Claire asked, when she finally had enough room to speak.

"A promise," he affirmed. "That I'll always be thinking of you. That I'll always come back to you, even though it might take a while."

"I wish I could give you something," she sighed, sitting up and pulling her blankets around her. Sylar shook his head in exasperation, moving to her closet and pulling out a dressing robe, tossing it to her. Claire mumbled a quiet _thanks_ and pulled it on, tying the sash around her waist and getting out of bed.

"I don't need anything from you, Claire."

"But I want to," Claire insisted, inspecting her vanity. She opened a drawer with a frown, which quickly melted into a smile as she pulled out a chain, grabbing another ring and sliding it on. She held out her hand and Sylar frowned, letting it fall into his palm.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Something to remember me by," Claire said softly. "You don't have to wear it. Just... keep it, maybe? If you want to."

"Claire, I..." The man sighed, cutting himself off, pulling the chain on over his head and fingers sliding the ring back and forth, smooth against his fingers, except for a tiny _C_ that was pressed into the metal. "...thank you."

Claire smiled when he tucked it under his shirt, a churning starting in her stomach that made her suddenly feel very cold, her smile falling from her face. "You're leaving now, aren't you?"

"I have to. It's almost four, and I want to be out of here before anyone wakes up." He reached for her hand, using it to pull her forward and kissing her on the forehead. Claire's arms wrapped around his neck, resting her head against his shoulder and sighing heavily. His hand rubbed over her back, resting his cheek against her temple. "You're a good girl, Claire. Please don't let me have changed that."

"You didn't," she assured him. "Because you're a good man, Sylar. A bit misguided, it's true, but... underneath, you have a good heart."

"I think I may have taken away more than your pain when I took your ability," he said incredulously. "Like your sense of reason."

"Well, I think I lost that a long time ago," she teased, raising up onto her tiptoes and kissing him. "I'll miss you."

"Believe it or not, I'll miss you too," Sylar replied, removing her hands from around his neck and starting for the window.

Claire fidgeted, unsure of what to do, before she followed, spinning him before he could reach for the glass and kissing him hard. Sylar hummed under his breath, arms surrounding her and lifting her up. Claire's legs locked securely around his hips, moaning when his tongue slid into her mouth and rubbed against hers.

After a long moment, he finally pulled away from her. Claire frowned, resting her forehead against his. "I don't want you to go."

"I have to, Claire. If I stay any longer, we'll get caught, and you need to stay in your family's good graces for what's to come."

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"Nothing. I just have to go, now. But I promise that I'll be back, okay? Sometime when it'll just be us. Remember what to do if we aren't?"

"Act like I hate you," Claire whispered. "Okay, I got it."

"Good."

He carefully let her down, kissing her forehead and reaching for the window. He slid up the glass, thankful that there was no screen, and stepped out onto the ledge. He leaned back in for one quick kiss before he said, "See you around, Babydoll."

"Bye," Claire murmured, and with a rush of air, he was gone.

Claire closed the window with a heavy sigh, but the churning in her stomach had not yet faded. She groaned softly before she felt something raise in her throat, burning like acid.

Claire ran to the bathroom and fell to her knees, and, for the first time in her life, threw up.

 

 


	2. Lie To Me Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 3x19

_I don't want to know_ , Claire thought in panic. _I don't know if I can handle this. Please, please, please just let me be wrong._

But, as she walked into her bathroom and stared at the plastic wand before her, she couldn't deny that she had known.

_Positive._

Claire sank to the floor, clutching the plastic so tight in hand that it cracked. Her heart was beating a mile a minute, her stomach churning the same way it had in the mornings for almost three months.

_Pregnant._

Claire's hand moved to rest on her barely-swollen stomach, as if to protect the little life inside her, depending on her. Her knees pulled to her chest, and Claire lay her head back against the wall with a heavy _thud._ "What am I gonna do?" She whispered.

"Claire?" Sandra called up the stairs. "Are you okay, honey?"

"I'm fine, Mom," she replied, standing suddenly and tearing the cardboard box into tiny pieces, scattering it in the trash and covering it with paper towel. She took the test with her when she returned to her room, still clutching it tightly in hand, eyes drawn to it again.

_Stupid, pink plus sign,_ Claire thought. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. I'm so screwed. What am I gonna do?_

She had to get out of here.

She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, putting it on—pleased to see that her belly was undetectable, at least for now—and shoving the test on the inside pocket, somehow unable to release it. She couldn't deny it, now. She had the proof.

She was pregnant.

With Sylar's baby.

Three months had passed since he had come to her, asking for her to lie, looking for her to be the one to give him the answers. Three months had passed since she had let him into her arms, her heart and her bed. That night, she had seen him for who he really was—a man in need of love and comfort, but didn't believe he deserved it. A man who had a great capacity to love, but didn't know how to share it.

He'd promised that he would return to her, had slipped a ring on her finger and kissed her goodbye. She hadn't seen him since.

She hadn't removed the ring since he'd put it there—much to her father's displeasure, but she'd passed it off as a gift from West before he had went on the run—and often found herself messing with it whenever she was stressed. Her mother had commented on it, saying that Claire wore it more than Sandra wore her engagement ring. Claire had laughed it off, but she didn't doubt it—it was the only thing she had to remind her that the time they shared was real.

Claire reached for her phone, tucking it into her pocket and grabbing her keys off the hook near her door, closing it behind her as she made her way down the stairs. She had to get out of the house, at least for a while.

"Claire," Sandra called as her daughter passed. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

_Oh, god, she knows,_ Claire thought, panicked. "Sure, Mom."

Sandra gestured her over, and Claire slid onto a bench, facing her across the island counter. "Claire, I just want to say..."

_Here it comes,_ Claire thought.

"... that I'm really proud of you."

"Huh?" Claire asked.

"Yeah. For helping that man, Eric Doyle. You overcame your feelings for him and brought yourself to help him, Claire, and that shows a huge amount of maturity, on your part. I'm proud of you for that."

Claire smiled minutely, breathing deeply and attempting to calm down her heart. "Oh... thank you. I just realized that if I want to help people, I can't be selective about it, that's all."

"Well, you're a very smart girl, Claire, and I admire that in you." Sandra took her daughter's hand and squeezed it, finally looking her over. "Are you okay, Claire?"

"Yeah," Claire said, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I'm just gonna go out for a while, if it's okay with you. I know it's getting late, but I won't be gone too long."

Sandra frowned, considering, before she nodded. "Alright, but you be careful of those agents, you hear me? And don't let them cause you any trouble. Bring that gun—the one your dad keeps in his office and thinks we don't know about."

"Sure," Claire answered with a relieved smile, hopping up and entering her father's office, opening the top drawer and popping out the false bottom to remove the small, black pistol. She flicked on the safety lock before she secured it in the waistband of her jeans, grimacing slightly when she realized that they were a bit tighter than she was used to.

She wouldn't be able to hide it forever. But, for now, she could certainly try.

"Alright, I have it," she said, closing the door of the office behind her and heading to the door. "I'll see you later."

"Alright, sweetie," Sandra called. "Oh, and if you see that bitch of an agent, shoot her a few times for me."

"Will do," Claire replied with a faint smile, slipping out the front door. She unlocked her car, climbing in and turning it on, pulling out of the driveway.

She didn't know where she was headed yet, but she just followed the roads, making random turns until she was pulling into the driveway for the state beach. She made sure to lock the car, the blinking of the lights signaling the action, lighting up the strip of sand for a few seconds before all went dark again.

Claire sighed, inhaling the smell of the salt, the crash of the waves against the sand soothing her, pushing the nervous, fluttering panic down until she could no longer feel it. She toed off her trainers, removing her socks and leaving them near a piece of driftwood. Wiggling her toes in the sand, she went down to the waterline, letting the warm water of the California Pacific wash over her feet.

Swallowing, Claire reached into her jacket, the pregnancy test clenched tightly in hand. She stared at the little pink plus, one hand falling to spread over her stomach.

"Hi, baby," she whispered, words lost in the wind. "I don't know what to do with you. If I'm honest, you scare me more than anything has ever scared me before."

The darkness was all-enveloping, the only light from the moon and stars, reflections distorted on the water's surface. Claire had never felt so incredibly alone, but, at the same time, something about this place made her feel... safe. Backing up a few feet, she sat in the dry sand, knees pulled to her chest and rested her chin on them, arms wrapped around herself. It wasn't the cold that made her shiver.

"I never thought that this would happen," the blonde added. "It was just once—but I should have been smarter about it. But, now... I have you. And you're growing, getting bigger every day. And I wonder if you can move your little fingers yet, your toes... if you can hear me. You probably can't yet. But, someday."

Claire stared out at the water, at the foam that crawled up the shore before it retreated, steadily growing closer to her, but still so far away. She wondered if it would reach her, if she sat there long enough.

If he would find her, if she waited long enough.

"And, even though I'm scared, I'm still happy. You're here and alive, and I need to start taking care of you, to make sure you'll be healthy. Because, even though I can't get hurt doesn't mean you can't." She paused, considering. "I wonder if you'll be like me. If you'll have a power. For your safety, I'd say no—you'd be much better off away from all this fighting, away from the power struggle. But I can't imagine you _not_ having a power, since it runs pretty heavily in my family, and... your father has one, too. Lots, actually. But he takes them away from people, and a lot of people don't like him because of it."

She wasn't sure why she was talking if no one was listening, but she had to keep going. This was the first time that she'd been able to talk about it, the first time that she could really get it off her chest, and if talking to the unborn child that was safely growing in her belly made her feel better, then she'd damn well do it.

"But I like him. He just wanted someone to understand him, and I think that I understand him, now. He wanted someone to be there for him, and I was able to do that- well, I hope so. And he said that he was going to come back... I hope he does. I wear the ring he gave me all the time. I never take it off. It's the only thing he ever gave me... well, beside you. And you're really important. I think he'd want to know about you."

Her eyes started to burn; she thought it was from the salt, at first, but when she felt a pang in her chest and a stutter in her breath, she realized that she was crying. Once she started, she couldn't stop, the salt from her eyes dripping down her cheeks, combining with the salt in the sand.

"I miss him," Claire whispered.

"Who, me?" A voice from behind her asked.

Claire turned, pulling the gun from her waistband and flicking off the safety lock, pointing it at the person standing there. Green and brown eyes met for the first time in forever, the gun fell from her hand, and Claire scrambled to her feet.

"Sylar!" Claire exclaimed, throwing herself into his open arms, face pressing to his neck and inhaling his scent. Strong arms surrounded her, and Claire suddenly didn't feel so alone anymore. "How are you here? How long have you been here? Are you okay? Did anyone follow you?"

"Slow down, Claire," Sylar murmured, playing with a lock of her hair. "I'm fine, no one followed me—or you, for that matter. You should be more careful about that. And I just got here, but I don't have much time. Why, what's wrong?" He pulled back from her, holding her at arm's length and surveying her. "There's something different about you."

Claire swallowed, averting her eyes. "I, uh..."

"Claire." He stared at her, mouth set in a frown. "Tell me."

She bit her lip, shivering from the cold. "Do you remember... when I asked you about what you'd do if something unexpected happened? And you said that we'd cross that bridge if we came to it?" Her eyes met his, hers nervous and his with dawning comprehension. "Well, I'm on that bridge."

His hands pulled away from her, and Claire stepped toward him, feeling like her heart might beat out of her chest. "Please don't be angry! I swear, I didn't know that this would happen. I'm just scared out of my mind, and I don't know what to do because I don't know how you feel about it."

"You're pregnant?" He asked, taking another step away from her.

"Yes," Claire whispered. She felt like her heart was breaking, and had no idea what to do to fix it—didn't know what to say to make it better.

"How long have you known?" His arms crossed over his chest, and for the first time, Claire saw something in his eyes— _fear_.

"I found out today, but I've suspected for a while. I just didn't have the chance to check." She pulled the test out of her pocket, holding it out to him.

He gingerly took it from her palm, his eyes fixed on it before he handed it back. "You're... and you're sure that it's mine?"

Claire tried to swallow back the anger that bubbled up in her throat, but was unsuccessful. Instead, the burning in her eyes multiplied and she turned away, arms wrapping around her stomach as she gasped out a sob, walking to the waterline and away from him. She couldn't help it; just the fact that he even _thought_ the baby could be anyone else's just made her want to be sick.

"Claire!" He grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. "Claire, I just had to ask—"

The sound of her slap echoed across the empty beach. "How _dare_ you," the petite girl snarled. "How could you even _think_ that it would be anyone else's? That ring you gave me, Sylar—I haven't taken it off since you put it on my finger. Don't you _understand_?"

Sylar stared at her in shock, his fingers gingerly touching his cheek, though the redness had already begun to fade. "I just—"

"No," Claire whispered, voice cracking as another sob wracked her body. "Just go. Leave me alone. I can deal with this by myself. I don't need you."

His eyes darkened, and before Claire could stop him, he'd grabbed her and pulled her into a kiss. Claire tried to push him away, but he wouldn't have it, even refusing to stop when she bit his lip until it bled. He held her there, one hand stroking through her hair- calming her down almost immediately, and she cursed him silently for picking up on that little trick- and kissing her patiently until she allowed him entrance.

Once he had thoroughly explored her mouth, reveling in her taste and the way full, soft lips pressed against his, he pulled away and pulled her into him, his arms around her waist. "Babydoll, I'm not going to let you do this alone."

"What?" Claire asked, surprised.

He laughed under his breath, but when he looked at her, there was no humor in his eyes. "I refuse to take after my father, Claire. I will never abandon my child... or you."

Claire tensed, but the kiss he lay to her temple calmed her. "You want the baby?"

"Of course," he replied, arms tightening around her. "Don't you?"

"Yeah," she answered, and realized with a rush that she really _did_. The thought of a little life slowly growing inside of her was almost magical—even more so that it belonged to her and a man who wanted them _both_. She rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes when he buried his face into her hair. "Yeah, I want it."

She shivered when his cold hand found its way under her shirt, palm resting flat against her belly, fingers tracing the barely-rounded shape. "You're not very big," he observed. "Aside from the mood swings, I might not have noticed. Which can work to our advantage... no one can know."

"I can't hide it forever," Claire replied with an exasperated frown. "It's a baby. It's gonna get bigger, and then people are going to notice. People like my father... and the government."

Sylar swallowed, and Claire knew immediately what he thought of that statement. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I'll win over the feds, somehow—I'll give them a few of us, make Danko trust me, and I'll draw the attention away from you. But you'll have to stop these little rescue missions of yours and start taking care of yourself."

"I will," she promised. "I doubt that I could have gotten away with many more, anyway."

"As for your father..." Sylar grimaced, his hand falling from her skin. "Do what you have to. Just stay safe... both of you."

"You too," Claire replied, cradling his face in her hands and pulling him down to kiss him. "I've missed you more than you can imagine."

"I've thought about you every day." He linked his hand with hers, holding it between them, turning the ring on her finger. "You really haven't taken it off?"

"Not once," she said with a smile. "My dad asked me about it once, and I told him that West gave it to me. My ex-boyfriend," she added at his frown. "It ended a few months ago. He could fly."

Sylar huffed, frown fading when Claire squeezed his hand. "Hey. Don't let it bother you."

"I'm hardly jealous of a boy with a half-rate power," he snorted.

Claire scowled. "You know you just insulted Nathan, right?"

"Precisely."

Claire half-smiled, gently shoving him and not protesting when he used her wrist to pull her in, wrapping her in his arms. "Jerk."

They were silent for a few moments, listening to the sound of the waves and enjoying each other's warmth. It was Sylar who broke the comfortable quiet between them. "I know that this might be inconvenient for you, Claire, but... I'm glad that it's you... as the mother of our child."

"I'm glad that they're yours, too," Claire whispered with a contented smile. "I just wish that you could be here, for all of it."

"I know. But I'm doing this to protect you. It's necessary."

"A necessary evil," Claire sighed. "I understand. Just... be careful."

"I will," he replied, carefully drawing away and taking hold of her hand once more. He guided it up, pressing it between his collarbones, and Claire felt a slight disturbance there. Frowning, she moved aside the collar of his shirt and smiled at what she saw.

"You still have it?" she asked, pleasantly surprised, sliding the ring back and forth across the chain.

"Of course I do." Leaning down, he brushed his lips across her forehead and murmured, "I never take it off."

Claire smiled and Sylar matched it with a tiny upward quirk of his lips. "You're sweet."

He rolled his eyes, but his face was abruptly serious. "Claire?"

"Yeah?"

"I just have one thing that I want to try, if you'll let me."

Claire blinked, confused, and nodded. "Whatever you want."

He smirked. "You don't even know what I want yet."

Claire smiled, taking hold of both his hands. "I trust you."

A sudden flash of affection passed over his face, but it was gone before she was sure it even existed. However, he kept hold of her hands when he carefully got on his knees. He glanced up to her, making sure that she was okay with it, and when she nodded, only then did he release her hands.

Claire grimaced slightly when he began rolling up her shirt and jacket, muscles twitching from exposure to the cold air. She let out a small hiss through her teeth and he looked up in alarm, but she shook her head and motioned for him to continue. She wasn't exactly sure what to expect-

-Until he placed his ear to her stomach.

Claire felt her heart speed at the small, simple gesture. It was just so heartbreakingly _normal_ that she could hardly believe it was happening.

And then he whispered, "I can hear it's heartbeat."

"Really?" Claire asked, amazed.

"Mmhm," he replied. "It's quiet, but it's definitely there."

"Quiet? Is it okay?" she exclaimed, slightly panicked.

"Calm down," Sylar replied, stroking her sides. "It's strong, just quiet. It'll get louder as it gets older. Don't worry."

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay. I'm sorry. I just seem to overreact lately."

"It's fine, Claire. You can't help it." With that, his hands both moved to rest on her stomach. He glanced up at her before he looked back at her belly and said, "I will protect you. I'll do whatever it takes."

A slight thrill went through the blonde and her eyes began to sting again. Sylar brushed his lips across her slightly swollen stomach, pulling back and rolling down her shirt and jacket before he stood. Reaching out to her, he wiped away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. "Don't cry, Claire."

She slid into his arms, clutching at the back of his shirt. "Please don't go. I want you to be here, to watch our baby grow, to see him or her be born."

He shook his head and kissed her forehead. "I can't, Babydoll. I wish I could. But, maybe by the time this is over, I'll be able to see you again. Maybe. Okay?"

"Okay," Claire whispered. "You just be careful. I'll go to the doctor... make sure everything is going well." She laughed quietly. "Find out if it's a boy or a girl."

Sylar drew away, dark eyes intense and holding her gaze. "Claire... I _will_ keep you safe. Nothing will get in my way, not even your family. You understand that, right?"

She bit her lip, but nodded. "Do what you have to. But try not to hurt them, if you don't have to."

"No promises," he whispered, hands gently rubbing over her shoulders. "But, I'll do what I can. Now, I have to go. I have a Hunter to hunt."

Claire nodded again, accepting a slow kiss before he backed away.

"Oh, and Claire?"

"Yeah?"

Sylar smiled slightly. "You should take a closer look at your ring, sometime."

He disappeared into the night.

Claire bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry as she made her way back to the path, sliding on her shoes and reaching for her keys, unlocking her car. Climbing inside, she paused before she flicked on the light above her head, sliding off her ring and looking at it more closely.

There, on the inside, a few words were written.

_I know how to make love stay._

An incredulous burst of laughter escaped Claire, a wide smile spreading across her face. She turned the ring over in her hands before she slid it back on, not sure if she would burst into tears or not.

After a moment, she decided that she needed to get home, as it was approaching ten o'clock and her mother was still expecting her. Claire turned on the car and pulled out of the driveway, a tiny smile still stuck to her mouth as she drove home.

Claire parked her car in the garage, walking around to go through the front door. "Mom, I'm home!"

"Did you have a nice time, honey?" Sandra called, puttering in the kitchen when Claire passed.

"Yeah," she replied with a grin. "Yeah, I did. I'm just going to go up to my room, okay?"

Sandra gave her daughter a searching look before she replied, "That's fine. Get to bed soon, okay? You have to work tomorrow."

"I know," the blonde replied. "Night, Mom."

Claire climbed the stairs, turning into her room and flopping onto her bed with a happy sigh, the pregnancy test in her coat pocket forgotten as she threw it aside. That was exactly what she had needed- and she didn't feel so scared, anymore.

Sylar wanted their baby.

And he wanted _her_.

Laying a hand on her stomach, Claire whispered, "Daddy's gonna take care of you. And he loves you- I know it."

Claire's phone rang, then, and she reached for the piece of plastic with a frown, wondering who would call her this late and not recognizing the number. "Hello?"

" _Claire, I know what you're doing, and you have to stop."_

Green eyes widened and her hand clenched around her cell. " _Angela?_ What are you talking about?"

" _Claire, do not take me for a fool. I've dreamed it. Your consorting with Sylar will only bring you pain, and it needs to stop before things get out of hand."_

"Well, it's too late for that," she hissed. "Did you dream _that_?"

A heavy sigh crackled over the line. _"You're pregnant, aren't you?"_

Claire tensed. "What's it to you?"

" _Claire, I don't think you understand your situation. As we speak, the government is coming for you—your free pass is up. Danko threw Nathan from a building and watched him fly away. The game has changed, and you need to be prepared. Sylar is the most powerful of us all, and you're a force to be reckoned with, yourself. If anyone learns of this, Claire, they will be after you like never before—the child you carry has the potential to be immeasurably powerful, and to the government, that is extremely dangerous"_

"He said he'll protect us," the girl whispered, drawing her knees to her chest.

" _He'll be in no position to protect anyone, Claire."_

"What? Why not?"

" _Because, Claire,"_ Angela said. _"And I'm sorry to tell you this, but... Sylar is going to die."_

Cold spread through her chest, and Claire curled in tighter to herself. "No. No, that can't be possible. He can't die; he has my ability!"

" _Claire, you know perfectly well that he can,"_ the woman replied. _"And you can't help him. It has to be this way."_

"But I—" Claire choked.

" _Now, Claire, you need to get out of there. The agents will be arriving at your door right now."_

And, sure enough, Claire heard the telltale smash of a door being kicked in, her mother screaming her name, just as there was a knock on her window, Nathan hovering outside. "Claire!" he hissed. "Claire, come here!"

"I don't want your help!" she snarled.

" _Claire, go with Nathan. He will take care of you,"_ Angela insisted, obviously having heard her son's hissed words.

"Claire, do you want to get caught? Is that what you want? They'll drug you, and god knows what that'll do to your body."

_Just stay safe... both of you._

"Fine," she whispered, reaching out to take his offered hand.

"You're going to have to jump. Trust me."

" _Claire, just one more thing—"_

"This isn't the best time, Angela," Claire growled, crawling onto her windowsill.

" _It's important."_

"It can wait!"

"Claire, hurry up!"

Claire jumped into Nathan's waiting arms just as the pounding at her door began. The man dragged her behind the tree outside of her window. Claire struggled to keep her phone tucked between her ear and shoulder.

" _It's a boy."_

The phone slipped, falling three stories to the ground below and smashing to pieces. Nathan hissed as the feds came to check on the unexpected noise, and rocketed into the atmosphere, Claire in his arms.

_It's a boy._

Despite the adrenaline rushing through her veins and the crushing terror in her chest, Claire smiled.


	3. Little White Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3x25 "An Invisible Thread"

"Do you think there's a chance he didn't get caught?" Claire asked, her walk fast-paced, steps matching those of her grandmother.

"Noah?" Angela replied. "No. That was his plan all along."

Shaking her head with a frustrated sigh, the blonde grumbled, "I don't know how my dad always manages to get himself in the middle of everything."

Angela snorted. "Because he puts himself there- mostly because of you. You have no idea the lengths a parent will go to ensure the safety of their child." Dark eyes glanced to Claire's undetectable stomach. "Something I hope you never have to find out for yourself."

Claire swallowed, hand clenching, and did everything she could to avoid the woman's gaze.

"Now," Angela added. "This is where I get off."

Claire turned in surprise; she hadn't been expecting that. "What do you mean?"

"I just wanted to make sure you got here safely. I'm not going in there with you to see Nathan."

Claire frowned. "Why not?"

Angela's face was serious, but her eyes were afraid when she said, "Because I need to go find Matt Parkman."

Claire glanced around to be sure that no one was listening before she asked quietly, "Is this about your dream?"

Angela nodded solemnly. "In it, Parkman saves Nathan's life."

"Okay," the girl said. "So why don't you just come up and warn Nathan, and tell him how to avoid danger?"

It seemed so simple in her mind—so it didn't make sense when Angela shook her head. "That's not how it works. I cannot change what I have dreamed, but I _can_ help push its outcome. Now, you go find Nathan, and I will find you later."

The woman turned, leaving Claire alone in the buzzing lobby as she left. Claire frowned, turning in place, looking for where she was supposed to go and finally spotting the elevator, which she slipped into with a group of businessmen.

It was a race against the clock, but Claire was racing for another reason entirely.

She had to get to Nathan, had to get to Sylar—had to figure out a way to smooth this over, to protect her family from harm, either way.

_Sylar is going to die._

She wouldn't let that happen.

The gray sweater Angela had given her was admittedly high-fashion, but loose enough to cover her slowly-expanding stomach. She was small enough that it hardly showed, but without a little extra help, her carefully-kept secret may be exposed, and that simply could not happen.

_You'll have to pretend that I'm the enemy._

She could do it. She could convince them all that she hated him. She just had to get there first. Had to save his life.

_I know how to make love stay._

Claire twisted the ring around her finger, waiting for the elevator to reach the top floor so she could get to Nathan's office. She had to keep an eye on her biological father, to make sure that he stayed out of harm's way, and that Sylar did, also.

She felt like a traitor, somehow, by playing both sides. But Angela understood—she had done the same for her sons.

_It's a boy._

Claire swallowed when the elevator dinged, taking a careful step out. She had gone to the doctor the day before, at Angela's insistence, and despite the doctor's displeasure that she hadn't been checked up on prior to her visit, everything checked out. Her son was healthy—almost abnormally so, Claire remembered with a tiny smile—and growing well. In another four or five months, she would be holding her baby boy.

And she would make sure that his father was _alive._

"Can I help you?" Nathan's secretary asked.

"Yes, thank you," Claire answered. "My name is Claire Bennet; I'm looking for my father, Nathan Petrelli."

Though the woman gave her a strange look, she went to the door and said, "Sir? Someone here to see you. She claims to be your daughter."

"Oh, right. Send her in."

Claire frowned, entering Nathan's office to see him stepping out of the bathroom.

"Claire. I'm glad you finally made it. I was beginning to get worried about you." There was something about him... he was... off.

Claire shook her head slightly to clear it of the thought. "Did you find him?"

"Sylar?" Nathan asked, smiling slightly. "Yeah. But he got away."

Claire eyes him suspiciously as he approached her, forcing a nervous smile.

"He's going to the Stanton Hotel to meet the President in an hour. I'm going to intercept the President first and warn him." Nathan looked immeasurably pleased with himself.

Claire raised her eyebrows. "And tell him _what?_ That Nathan Petrelli has a look-alike?"

He frowned at the tone of incredulity in her voice. "If I have to, yeah. Blow the lid off this whole thing." A note of softness crept into his voice when he added, "I'm going to do whatever it takes to shut down Building 26."

_I'm going to protect you. I'll do whatever it takes._

Claire swallowed, a flutter shooting through her stomach and resisting the urge to cover it with her hand, to comfort herself and the baby inside of her. This didn't sound like Nathan—and she was starting to wonder... Sylar _was_ a shape-shifter, but he surely wouldn't risk talking to her under this amount of security, right? "And how do I know that this is you?"

Nathan looked away, toying with his cufflinks. "What are you talking about?"

_Nathan would know what I was talking about,_ Claire thought. _He knows that Sylar can shift. This can't be Nathan._ Her eyes softened at the thought, but there was no way to be sure, and she had to keep up her act. She couldn't slip up, not now. "How do I know you're not Sylar?"

Brown eyes widened slightly before the man tilted his head with a frown. "Claire... I'm me."

Her eyes searched his, but she couldn't tell—wanted to know so desperately, but couldn't accuse him, because what if she was wrong?

The man reached out and Claire stood very still, holding back a shiver when his fingers brushed against her skin, playing with the charm of her necklace idly. Her eyes searched his face, searched the quiet softness of his eyes before they flickered to her. "We've spent a lot of time together over the past few days," he said quietly, still rolling the charm between his fingers, and smiled a little. "Mexico... I was beginning to think you knew me better than anyone else."

He smiled, and the earnest look in his eyes made Claire return the gesture, sighing as her head dropped, wishing that it actually... _could_ have been Sylar, at least for a moment. "Sorry," she whispered with a tiny smile, sad and disappointed, even though she knew she shouldn't be.

Nathan chuckled. "That's alright." He pulled away from her. "Listen, why don't you stay here?"

The smile fell from Claire's face almost immediately.

"I've got a car taking me to the Stanton Hotel. Lay low until I can clean this whole mess up." He turned to enter the bathroom, freezing when Claire spoke next.

"No, I want to come with you. In case anything goes wrong."

Nathan's shoulders tensed when he turned, swallowing and replying, "It's not going to be safe."

_Just stay safe... both of you._

Claire clenched her fists— _keep it a secret, Claire. Do what you have to do, don't let him know._ "So what? I can't get hurt." She bit the inside of her lip. "And... I need to help stop Sylar. It's time I put myself in the middle of all this and made a difference."

Nathan pursed his lips, nodding a little and forcing a smile. "I was thinking exactly the same thing." He stepped into the bathroom and out of sight.

Claire stared at the doorway where he had been, feeling her heart beat a lightening rhythm in her chest.

He returned with his suit jacket, sliding it on. "You're right. If things do go south..." He closed the door behind him. "I want you right there. Right by my side."

Claire felt like she was going to explode. _That can't be Nathan._

But when he smiled and offered her his arm, Claire accepted and allowed him to escort her to the Stanton.

Passing through the guards, Claire didn't notice anything else strange—he didn't slip up again. At least, if he really _was_ Sylar.

"So, what's the plan?" Claire asked, stepping away from the security scanner. "We just tell them the President's in danger?"

Nathan shook his head slightly, returning to her side. "That will just send him down a rabbit hole. And then Sylar can become..." His lips quirked, and a dangerous, amused look flashed in his eyes. "...a rabbit."

Claire stared at him.

"Just gotta play it close to the vest. Follow my lead, okay?"

"Nathan!" A man walked over to them, a wide smile on his face.

"This is my daughter, Claire. Claire this is—" He shook the man's hand. "Liam—"

"Samuels, the President's Chief of Staff," she answered. At his strange look, she rolled her eyes and added, "I live in America."

"Your dad and I barely survived boarding school together," said Liam with a grin.

"Barely," Nathan agreed, distracted as his eyes scanned the room. "Listen, I really appreciate the President giving me some time this afternoon."

Behind them, Claire carefully buttoned her sweater, eyeing those who watched her suspiciously and feeling the need to stay sheltered in any way she could. More than anything, this secret needed to _stay_ a secret, and she couldn't have anyone asking her about the slight rounding of her belly.

"Sure. He just stepped up on stage; speech usually clocks in at about ninety minutes," Liam said with a faint smile.

"Whatever works for him," the eldest Petrelli son replied. "But I'd like to stick around close by."

"Absolutely. We've got a suite upstairs. Come here. Uh, do me a favor, sign in here and Frank will show you how to get up there, alright?"

"Okay." Nathan took the pen to sign his name on the list, and Claire frowned.

"Nice to meet you," Liam added.

"You too," the blonde replied, distracted. "I thought you were right-handed." _Left-handed. It has to be him. He slipped._

The man hesitated, glancing around for a moment. His eyes met hers, and she could tell that he knew he screwed up. "Ambidextrous," he said. "I bat righty, throw lefty."

Her eyes followed him, and for a moment, she forgot to move. _He's here._

"You coming?" He asked, frowning.

Claire's eyes narrowed and she walked by him, shivering slightly when his hand touched her back, guiding her into the elevator. She did her best to ignore the burning of his eyes on her, but her mind was racing, heart beating a mile a minute and stomach clenching in nervous anticipation.

_Nathan_ was surprisingly silent as Claire followed him down the hallway, and when they entered the suite, he almost immediately went to the far window, opening the door and stepping onto the balcony, surveying the sky.

And then Claire's phone rang.

They both froze, Claire looking to him as he turned, picking idly at his nails. She carefully extracted the phone from her pocket, holding it tightly in hand when he met her eyes and suddenly found herself unable to move.

Nathan's face began to bubble and shift, and Claire held back a gasp when the form molded to one too familiar for comfort—her own face. Her copycat's hands raised, and Claire felt herself stand, though not voluntarily, and struggled to move as Sylar crossed the room in short, gliding strides and plucked the phone from her hand.

"Hello?" He asked, though it was Claire's body and Claire's voice that moved. She fought the urge to shudder at the strange and alarming experience as her father's voice crackled over the line.

" _Thank god. Where are you?"_

"I'm with Nathan," Sylar replied.

" _Are you sure it's him?"_

Sylar fought the urge to grin, failing badly and holding a finger up to his lips when he moved to stand before Claire. "Oh, it's him. Don't worry."

" _How do you know?"_

Sylar crossed behind her, and Claire heard the disconcerting crunch of bones rearranging before Sylar moved to her other side, back in his own body. "Because it's me."

Claire fought to look at him, holding back a shudder at the sound of his voice, the first time hearing it in over a month and the sound sending thrills down her spine.

She heard the telltale beep of her phone disconnecting, followed by the quiet sound of him laughing under his breath. He didn't hesitate before he leaned close, inhaling the scent of her hair and letting out a tiny hum of satisfaction.

"Oh, god," he murmured, voice close to her ear. "This is fun."

_Cameras,_ Claire thought desperately. _There are security cameras. Please don't give us away._

"It's been a while, hasn't it, Claire?" Sylar murmured. "We should catch up. But first..." With a twitch of his fingers, Claire's body began to move to where the wine cooler sat on the countertop. Claire didn't try to fight it, not really- she knew he wouldn't hurt her, not when she was carrying his child, and she knew that alcohol would have no effect on her indestructible body. He moved her like a puppet without strings, and Claire was vaguely reminded of Eric Doyle—wondered if he'd gotten away, not that it really mattered to her.

She popped the cork out of a bottle of red wine, and Claire could hear the amusement in his voice when he said, "Don't you love a good pinot?"

_Idiot,_ Claire thought, rolling her eyes. _Keep up the act, Claire._ "My dad's on his way. He's gonna stop you, then I'm gonna kill you."

He spun her in place, eyes searching hers and shivering slightly. "No." She walked to the mahogany coffee table and set down the bottle—he had known she was lying. "Actually, I'm gonna kill him. Or have you kill him." Claire straightened. "I haven't decided yet."

But there was nothing threatening about the way he said it—knew he wouldn't make her do it. Knew he wouldn't follow through, for her sake. Hopefully.

Claire's eyes locked with his, silently trying to convey her feelings of loneliness and longing, wishing she could just be near him, without anyone else knowing their secret. It would be so much less complicated if things weren't the way they were—the thought made her sad.

"Don't give me that look," he said softly, spinning her back around and walking her to retrieve the wine glasses. "Everybody dies sometime."

_Right. It's just an act,_ Claire thought. _I need to get my head on straight._

"Well, almost everybody. Papa Petrelli, Mama Bennet..." he nearly snorted. " _Mr. Muggles."_

Claire wanted to laugh, but knew it was hardly appropriate in this situation. But, god, he could make her laugh, if only she had the chance.

"What's your brother's name? Larry?" He asked with a frown.

"Lyle," Claire replied, scowling.

"Lyle. Right." He smiled to himself, then tilted his head just slightly to the side in thought. "He's gonna die, too."

_Everyone but us,_ Claire thought. _Just as long as we both live. I'm going to protect you, too._ She set the glasses on the table, nearly tripping as she walked backwards and sitting heavily on the couch.

"As we speak, my father is dying," he said quietly.

Her eyes snapped to his, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from commenting on that little fact. _So that's where he was,_ she thought. _Looking for answers. He said he'd never take after his father... I wonder how that little meeting went._

Sylar leaned forward, frowning, brown eyes meeting green, and Claire could see the bitterness there. "Did I tell you I got to meet my real dad?" Sighing and reaching for the bottle, he poured wine into each of the glasses. "Boy, was that a disappointment."

She had to look away; she knew how _that_ felt.

"Have you ever stopped to think about how much we have in common, Claire?" He nudged her glass towards her before he stood, his own in hand. "You were adopted, I was adopted. You..." Claire leaned forward to take the glass, exhaling sharply at the uncomfortable tensing and relaxing of her muscles. Sylar's eyes flicked to her, and he gestured, moving her to sit straight once more. "...can't die."

He sat beside her, his leg rubbing against hers, denim-on-denim, just like the first time. She wanted to lean into him so desperately, but knew that she couldn't, and knew that half of the reason he was controlling her was so that she didn't slip, didn't give them away.

"I can't die." He clinked their glasses together lightly.

"Oh, you can die," Claire breathed. _Or, at least Angela thinks so._ "I'll make sure of it." _I'll make sure you won't._

But Claire could start to see the frustration in his face, of hearing her every word and knowing it was a lie, of being so, _so_ close and yet so far; unable to touch, unable to hold, unable to even truly talk. With an impatient twitch of his fingers, they both raised their glasses, Sylar taking a short sip from his, Claire just barely tasting it.

His hand relaxed and Claire's arm lowered. He raised his glass once more, inhaling the scent of the wine before he sighed, placing his arm around her shoulders. "You'll get bored, after, like, a hundred years of trying to off me, watching all of your loved ones drop like flies." His eyes locked on her face, intense and searching, looking for her emotions without her having to say them out loud.

Claire avoided eye contact as best she could—one look in those eyes might destroy her, at this point, and she couldn't afford that.

Sylar's voice softened slightly. "You may eventually come to forgive me." He smiled a little, moving the hair out of her face and twining his fingers into blonde curls, moving close enough that Claire could feel the heat of his body. His voice lowered into a quiet murmur. "Maybe you'll even love me."

_Stop doing this to me,_ Claire begged internally. _I won't be able to keep it up. I can't hate you when you're so close to me like this._ She shivered finally, feeling a flutter in her stomach and wanting to say everything now that couldn't be said. She had so much to tell him and so little time. "I'll keep trying to kill you—for the rest of my life," she whispered.

"Well," he said with a slight shrug, and Claire could feel his hand tremble with the force of her lie. "Everybody needs a hobby." He took another sip from the glass, his eyes scanning her face. "I mean, I'm not saying there aren't bridges that need to be built. But if we start building them now..." His fingers moved from her hair, fingertips brushing her cheek. Claire closed her eyes, biting her lip, reveling in what might be their only contact when under the watchful guard of security cameras. His fingers brushed over her cheekbone, and his voice was tender and soft when he mumbled, "...who knows? You could be my first..." His hand moved to her back, and he leaned in until his voice was barely more than a whisper against her ear. "...First Lady."

The breath stuttered from Claire's lungs and her hands clenched- she couldn't do it anymore. She needed him, needed the comfort only he could give her. Needed the attention. Needed the affection.

" _Gabriel,_ " Claire pleaded, her voice only a breath that was undetectable by anyone but him.

His eyes darkened and suddenly looked away from hers, focusing on a cable that was poorly disguised in a corner and was suddenly ripped out- the power line to the cameras.

It didn't take any more than a second after that for Claire to be pulled into his lap, kissing her and holding her in place by his grip on her hair. Claire's mouth opened as soon as his touched it, tongues tangling, rubbing, and a deep moan escaping his chest, a soft purr echoing from Claire's.

He kissed her thoroughly, until Claire could barely breathe and had to pull away, one hand dropping to her stomach and rubbing a small circle.

"I've missed you," he murmured. "Every day. I thought I was going to explode, sitting here, so close to you and knowing every mean word you said was a lie. I've worked so hard to not give this away, but it's difficult when you're actually here."

"I know," she whispered. "And I've missed you, too. So much." She sighed, resting their foreheads together, one hand twining with the one that had previously rested on her belly.

"How's the baby?" Sylar whispered.

"Perfect," she replied with a happy little smile. "Growing well, right on track. Abnormally healthy, even. I'm about four and a half months along, so, well into my second trimester."

"You're still hardly showing," he mumbled, eyes tracing the contours of her body in wonder. "And already halfway through your pregnancy. I've missed so much..."

Claire tilted her head to kiss him again, soft and chaste and comforting to the both of them. "It's alright. There's nothing much exciting going on anyway—just a few cravings and mood swings, you know. Normal stuff."

"Cravings?" He asked, quirking a smile. "I can hardly imagine."

"Nothing too strange," the blonde replied with a grin. "Chinese food, popcorn, cake batter ice cream, rice cakes with peanut butter. That sort of thing. And you're hardly missing out on the mood swings, believe me. I think I've cried more in the past few months than I have in my entire life."

"I should have been there," Sylar sighed, sitting up and resting his hands on her stomach, Claire's arms around his neck. "To be a part of all those stupid stories you tell your kids when they're older—going out for chocolate pudding at midnight, et cetera. To let you yell at me and kiss you quiet, to hold you when you cried. I should have been there."

His eyes closed, and Claire gently rubbed at the tension in his shoulders. "You've done what you had to, and I respect that more than if you'd stuck around and just done nothing. You've done incredible things to keep us safe, Sylar. We owe you everything."

The man huffed, eyes opening and locking on her belly, nudging her shirt up and sweater aside and resting his palms flat against golden skin. "Do you know the gender?"

Claire nodded. "Yeah..." She smiled, touching his cheek and leaning in to kiss his forehead. "It's a boy."

Sylar let out a breathless laugh, a slow smile spreading across his face, looking up to meet her eyes. "A boy? I have a son?"

"Mmhm," Claire agreed with a tiny smile.

"A son," he whispered, dark eyes full of sudden anxiousness.

"Sylar," Claire whispered, cupping his face in her hands. "I know what you're thinking. And you are _not_ your father. You'll never let yourself become that, and I know it. I can see it in you- you're a good man, and you're going to be a wonderful father. Okay?"

Sylar's arms wrapped around her waist and he stood, placing Claire on her feet and kissing her. Claire hummed into his mouth, shivering slightly when she felt his hands smooth down the cotton t-shirt. He pulled away after a long moment. "You always know what to say, Babydoll," he said quietly, tucking her bangs behind her ear. "But we're running out of time."

"No," Claire whispered, eyes widening and looking to the door. "Sylar, you have to get out of here."

"What? Why?"

Claire swallowed, thumb stroking over his cheek, her other hand resting against his heart, his large hand obscuring hers. "Because Angela told me something a few months ago, and I'm afraid that her dream will come true."

Dark brown eyes narrowed and the man frowned. "What did she see?"

"She said that you were going to die," the girl whispered, her hand clenching in his shirt. "And I can't let that happen. And last night, she had a dream that Matt Parkman is supposed to save Nathan's life- probably from you." Claire stepped into him, her petite body fitting against him perfectly, her arms wrapping around his waist. "I can't lose you. So, please, just go while you still can. Find the President, do whatever you have to do, but don't try to fight Nathan and Peter."

His arms wrapped around her tightly, but he pulled away, eyes glued to the door. "It's too late for that, Claire. I can hear them coming, they're down the hall."

"No," she whispered, eyes widening. "Sylar, you can't do this—"

"I can and I will," the man replied, eyes hardening. "I'll do whatever it takes, Claire."

"Sylar—"

"Claire," Sylar repeated. "I have to, there's no time for anything else."

"But I love you!"

The words were out of her mouth in a second, and when his eyes widened, she knew that there was no taking it back. Her heart pounding, Claire's fists clenched at her sides.

"You're not lying," he breathed.

Claire shook her head. "I wouldn't lie about something like that."

Stepping forward, he grabbed her and kissed her, and all the things he didn't say poured into her, his emotions, his worries, his dreams. All the things he'd never had the chance to tell her about.

"Claire, do you have a name for him?" Sylar asked, his hands fixing on her shoulders.

"I was thinking about naming him after my father," she replied.

He grimaced. "Nathan?"

"No," she said with a tiny smile. "Noah."

Sylar frowned, but the look smoothed over after an instant and he smiled, just barely. "Noah Gray... yeah, I like it."

Claire nodded, feeling a burning start at her eyes. "Please don't do this, Sylar. There's still time."

"No more time," he whispered. "They're here."

"No—" she hissed, turning to the door.

"Goodbye, Claire," Sylar said, and before she knew it, the doors were flung open and she was crashing into the wall of the hallway outside.

She grunted, pushing herself up and scowling, green eyes looking up at Nathan and Peter, who stood there, stunned, and to Sylar who stood just inside, his eyes still on her. "Go!" She insisted.

Sylar's hands lit with lightening as Nathan and Peter dove into the room, the doors slamming shut behind them.

_No,_ she thought, getting to her feet and moving to the doors, finding them locked. _Damn him!_ She shoved at them, but to no avail, and tried to peer inside, but the flashes of blue light made seeing anything impossible.

She turned, looking to find some other way in, when she finally heard the telltale crash of a window being broken and the sound of two people taking off in flight. Her breath left her and she returned to the doors, which pushed open easily now that Sylar wasn't keeping her out.

The suite was ruined; pieces of the walls were charred and burning, furniture was overturned and smoke filled the air, the far window that led to the balcony completely shattered.

Claire took one horrified step inside, and then another, finally noticing Peter when the man groaned, struggling to stand. She hurried to his side, holding onto his arm and letting him lean on her.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"Yeah," he replied, eyes glued on the outside.

"Where did they go?" Claire breathed, her eyes wide. _Please let him be safe. Let both of them be safe._

"The window," Peter said, and she could feel him shaking.

"Can you fly after them?" She was grasping at straws, but she knew that if Peter was able to join Nathan, Sylar would know he couldn't fight them both. He would be forced to retreat- and survive.

Peter turned to her, eyes just as frustrated as hers when he replied, "I can't."

Terror struck a pit in Claire's stomach, thoughts racing as she struggled to figure out a plan, where they would go, how to save them both from each other. "Come on, we have to find them," she said. Peter turned away, looking back to the window, and Claire, impatient and frustrated and terrified, insisted, "Come _on!_ "

She turned and ran from the room, Peter limping slightly as he followed at her heels.

 

* * *

 

It was then that Nathan was thrown back into the room, crashing into the piano, one of the legs collapsing and sending him sprawling to the floor. Sylar's feet touched the balcony, quickly walking into the destroyed suite, eyes narrowing when he saw Nathan struggling to stand, to turn and fight him once more.

Sylar raised his hand, fingers twitching, and slit the man's throat with his telekinesis. Nathan gasped in pain, blood flowing over his skin, groaning as he struggled to breathe and couldn't. Sylar watched, eyes narrowed and head tilted slightly to the side- he didn't need to steal Nathan's power, but he _did_ need to be sure that the man died.

Because, if he killed Nathan now, then Angela's dream about Parkman couldn't be true.

And maybe that meant that the dream she had of him wouldn't be, either.

He smirked slightly at the thought.

His eyes followed as Nathan collapsed back into a chair, the severe loss of blood killing him quickly, and Sylar started to laugh quietly, though not entirely in humor. How ironic was it that he had to kill _her_ father so _he_ could be a father to _their_ son? It wasn't fair, but that was life.

And Sylar would do anything to protect his family.

"Oh, Claire's going to be so mad at me," he chuckled as the light faded from Nathan's eyes. His smile dimmed before it completely fell from his face. _But I won't let my son be without a father. Not like me. And if that means you have to die, Nathan, then so be it._

His bones crunched and he grunted with pain as his form shifted into that of the dead man beside him, the man he'd just killed. But he had a job to do, a plan to follow through, and a family that he had to protect. He needed power to do that, to be sure that this would never happen again, and that his unborn son would never have to know what it was like to be hunted.

 

* * *

 

Peter and Claire ran down the stairs into the lobby.

"We should separate here," Peter panted. "You go that way, I'll look for Nathan over here."

"Hold it!" Shouted a familiar voice, and the two turned to see Noah holding a gun—pointed straight at Claire.

Peter held up his hand in confusion, stepping in front of is niece. "Noah?"

"You tell me that's Claire, not Sylar," the man hissed.

"I just _fought_ Sylar, okay? That is _Claire._ Put the gun down!"

"Dad," Claire said quietly, stepping toward him. "It's me."

Noah lowered the gun, his arms opening to embrace his daughter and holding her close. Claire closed her eyes, sighing heavily, and attempted to smother her terror. _I'm safe. I'll find him. I'll save him._

Noah pulled away after a few moments, glancing around before he looked to Peter and hissed, "Did you take his power?"

Claire's eyes were wide, looking between her father and her uncle, comprehension washing over her. _No, please no._

"Yeah," Peter whispered with a nod.

Her eyes locked on her uncle. "So we can stop him." _And I can stop you from killing him._

Noah and Peter grinned, sharing triumphant looks before a voice shouted, "Freeze! On the ground!"

Three secret service guards slowly approached, fear blatant in their eyes, but guns pointed and ready.

"The President's life is in danger!" Bennet growled, crouching and placing his gun on the marble floor. "You want him to live, you need to listen to us."

"I said _on the ground!_ " The man repeated.

_I don't have time for this!_ Claire thought, stepping forward with hardened resolve. _I hope this works._ "You can either listen to me now..." She pressed her forehead to the barrel of the man's gun. "...or I'll tell you _after_ you shoot me."

The man looked horrified, his gun shaking against her skin.

Noah and Peter stared at her in shock.

Claire fought the urge to smile as the man's gun lowered. "I thought you'd see it my way. Now, you need to take us to the President right away."

"Yes, ma'am," the guard whispered. "Follow me."

Peter and Noah smiled, following along behind the man and giving Claire proud looks the whole way. The man eventually led them into a side room full of armed guards, who confiscated Bennet's gun and allowed them through.

The President, a tall, dark-skinned, balding man with a large stomach stood when they entered. "I hear you've all caused quite some ruckus."

"Just a bit," Claire said with a smile.

"But we're trying to help you," Peter added. "So you should probably listen to us."

"What do you have in mind?" the man asked.

"Well," Bennet cut in. "I'm Emile Danko's replacement. I suppose you could consider me an expert on people with abilities." He glanced at Peter and Claire. "I was once part of an organization that kept their existence secret and the dangerous ones controlled. We had a bit of an unorthodox procedure to it, but it worked and always has. One of Us, one of Them."

"You mean to tell me that you actually _teamed up_ with these people to keep the peace?" The president asked with a frown.

"That's precisely what I'm saying," Noah replied. "Danko failed to realize that the people with abilities are still people, and not all of them are bad. My daughter, Nathan and Peter Petrelli... they're all good people. But there are some who are very, very dangerous, who think that their powers give them the ability to do whatever they want. And one of those people, possibly the most dangerous of all of them, is after you."

The president paled slightly. "What does he want with me?"

"Not to hurt you," Peter cut in.

"Just to shake your hand," Claire added. "To borrow your DNA so he could take your form and lead the country away from all this hunting and running and hiding—"

"—and toward his idea of what we should be like," Noah interrupted with a frown directed at his daughter. "His name is Sylar, and he has to be stopped."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Yes," Peter said with a nod. "For the moment, I've borrowed Sylar's shape-shifting ability, meaning that with a shake of your hand, I could take your form and take your place. I could lead him away from you, and, when he tries anything, I'll be able to stop him."

The man frowned. "How do you plan on stopping the most powerful one of you?"

Peter grinned, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a syringe. "With the most powerful tranquilizer, of course. Then, we can deal with him and you can go back to your life. We'll write it off as having never happened."

"How did you get that past security?" The president asked with a frown.

Peter's grin only widened.

The man twitched, eyeing Bennet and Peter and finally Claire. "And you're sure this will work?"

"Pretty damn," Bennet said. "It's a solid plan, but if it's going to work, we need to get going. _Now._ "

"Alright," the president said, holding out his hand for Peter to touch and grimacing when the tall, lanky Petrelli shifted into his look-alike.

"Perfect," Peter said. "Now, just get your security to escort me as usual, and I'll take care of the rest."

The President nodded, opening the door and instructing his staff, confused when Peter stepped out but knowing enough not to ask questions when the man leading their country told them what to do. They grouped around Peter, hurrying him out, Noah exiting into the hallway and retrieving his gun, Claire following behind her father as he led her back into the lobby. "I booked a room earlier. You need to go up there and wait."

"What?" Claire exclaimed. "No! I want to help!" _I need to make sure he's okay._

"No, Claire, it's too dangerous," Noah insisted, his hands on her shoulders. "Just go. I'll come and get you soon."

Claire swallowed, knowing she couldn't exactly disagree—she couldn't ruin their plans. She had to make it look like she hated him. She had to do as she was told, even if it was eating her up inside. "Will that injection kill him?" she whispered.

Noah's eyes softened, misinterpreting her question. "No. But I'll make sure he can never hurt you again, Claire. No matter what."

Claire nodded shortly, eyes burning as she whispered, "What floor?"

 

* * *

 

Sylar walked through the hotel kitchens, looking around—they had to be here somewhere, he knew it. He had to find them.

"This way, Mr. President!"

His eyes locked on the crowd of secret service with a slight smile. _Got you._

"Nathan. Is that you?" Liam pulled away from them, walking over and reaching out to shake his hand.

"Of course it's me," Sylar replied with a grin.

"We're getting the President out through the basement. I can't give you any more time," the man said apologetically.

His smile faded. "That's alright," he said. "You don't have any more time to give."

With a flick of his hand, he broke the man's neck and shifted into his form, following along behind the guards and catching up quickly. They twisted and turned through the labyrinth of hallways under the hotel, finally leading out a back door where the President's limousine waited.

"This way, Mr. President!" A security guard said, opening the door and closing it as the man slid into the car.

Sylar smirked to himself, walking around to the other side and sliding in himself, knocking on the privacy guard once he was seated and smiling as it started to raise. _Everything's going according to plan._

"Thank god you're alright, sir," he said with a smile.

"The Secret Service did a hell of a job today," the man replied.

Sylar nodded slightly. "And so did you."

He held out his hand, nearly tasting his victory when the man took it.

But something was wrong. It didn't feel the same. In face, something was pushing him, _forcing_ him to shift, back and forth between different faces, different people, different identities, and it hurt with every bubble and change.

Eyes widening in surprise and confusion, he gasped when a syringe was plunged into his neck and the President shifted into the form of Peter Petrelli. The man pulled him closer with a fierce grin.

"Bet you didn't think I took that one from you," he whispered, twisting the needle as Sylar's eyes began to close, body shutting down piece by piece.

The breath whooshed from his lungs and his mind went numb. The last thing he thought before all was black was, _Claire... I love you, too._

* * *

 

It was ten o'clock the next morning before anyone came to get Claire.

A knock on the doorl; she jumped out of bed. She hadn't been able to sleep all night, worrying herself sick. She had to know that he was okay. Still wearing the same clothes as the day before, her hand crept to her stomach, rubbing over it before she straightened and opened the door.

Angela stood on the other side. "May I come in?"

"Sure," Claire breathed, stepping aside and allowing the woman entrance.

Angela wasted no time in settling into a chair, brushing her disheveled hair out of her eyes and eyeing her granddaughter with a serious expression. "You may want to sit down."

Claire' heart dropped, and she sat on the bed, legs crossed, hands covering her stomach. "Please tell me that he's okay, Angela. _Please._ "

The woman closed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over her face before she looked at Claire and said, "I'm sorry."

Claire whimpered, hands clenching in her sweater, eyes widening. "No. No, no, no."

"You knew how it would end, Claire," Angela whispered. "I warned you not to get too close—"

" _No!_ " Claire shouted, curling into herself, knees raising to her chest and arms wrapping around them, head ducked as she squeezed her eyes closed, tears dripping over her cheeks. "You're lying! I don't believe you!"

"It's true," the woman said solemnly. "Sylar is dead, Claire. His plan to intercept the President failed, and he paid for his mistakes with his life."

"He can't die," she whispered. "He promised me. He promised that he'd always come back to me." Claire let out a few great, heaving sobs. "He can't leave me like this. _I need him!_ "

Angela stood, alarmed at her usually-strong granddaughter's transition into tears, into a breakdown the likes of which she'd never seen on the girl before. "Claire—"

" _Gabriel_ ," Claire whined softly, her hands crossing over her chest, fingernails sinking deep into the skin of her arm until she bled. Sobs wracked her body and Angela took a step forward.

"Claire, you have to stop. You have to be strong," Angela said softly. "You cannot show your pain, cannot let them see your feelings."

"Nothing matters," Claire gasped. "He's dead. I'm going to be alone forever. They'll all die eventually."

Angela pursed her lips, eyes hardening and smacked her granddaughter across the face.

Though Claire couldn't feel pain, she still froze, stunned, before she finally let loose. "How could you do this to me?" Claire howled. "You knew! You could have saved him! He didn't have to die!"

"Do you really think your father or Peter would have stopped otherwise?" Angela growled. "They would never let it go, Claire. Never. It was bound to happen eventually."

"But not now," the blonde whispered, gripping her hair and pulling hard, desperate to feel some sort of pain, something to distract her from the growing and crushing emptiness that was building inside her. "I need him, Angela. I need him."

Dark eyes widened slightly. "Claire, don't tell me that you fell in love with him," the woman replied. "Please don't have honestly _cared_ for him. He could never return that affection, Claire. Not even for you."

"What do you know?" Claire snarled, baring her teeth. "He _promised_ me, Angela. He gave me hope, gave me comfort, _gave me my son._ You would _never_ allow _your_ sons to be without their father!"

"My sons _are_ without their father," Angela pointed out.

"Not as children!" Claire scowled, pushing herself off the bed, stalking toward the other woman, who backed up in alarm, seeing the rage and pain and pure _murder_ that was building up in Claire. "Not as boys without a father to teach them, to care for them and look out for them! You _poisoned_ Arthur, Angela! That was _your_ fault!"

"Because he tried to kill Nathan!"

" _But he was there, Angela,_ " Claire whispered, baring her teeth. "He was there to watch them grow, to hold them as infants, to watch their first steps and guide them into adulthood. Now Noah will never have that chance."

Angela frowned. "Noah?"

" _Noah,"_ she repeated. "My son. Sylar's son. And _Sylar!_ He was _happy_ with me, Angela!"

"Sylar was never happy."

"That's bullshit!" Claire screamed. "He's happy when he had someone to love, to care about—he was so starved for affection, Angela, and I willingly gave it to him, and he gave me his heart." Claire held up her hand, showing the ring on her finger. "I gave him love, I gave him comfort and support and I _genuinely_ cared about him, about his future. I cared about him before I even knew I was pregnant with his child." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "What about _you_ , Angela? You told him that he had a family and then tore it away. _You broke his heart._ You made him into a monster and then gave him false hopes—you _lied_ to him."

Angela's back hit the wall, and the woman's hands clenched. "Claire, you need to stop. I know you're angry, I know you're feeling betrayed, but _it had to be done._ "

Claire stoppedand deflated, head ducking and tears steadily streaming over her cheeks, shoulders heaving as she cried. " _You ripped apart my family,"_ Claire whispered. "Don't you have a heart? What am I supposed to tell my baby when he asks me where his father is? What am I supposed to do when it comes time to teach him to play baseball or football? How do you expect me to look my little boy in the eyes and tell him that his father is gone forever? How can I make him believe that Sylar loved him unless he's there to tell Noah himself?"

"I suppose," Angela whispered. "That he'll just have to have faith. That he will have to survive with one parent. That he will just have to be another son in the long line of Grays that lived without a father."

Claire's arms wrapped around her middle. "And what about me?" She asked. "What do you want me to do, Angela? I don't want to fall asleep alone every night and wake up alone every morning. I don't want to get close to someone who will leave me behind. I want a person who knows me for who I am... a man who has the capacity to love me with his whole heart and the desire to protect me. I want someone who will know when I need him most and be right there, waiting, because he felt in his _soul_ that I needed his love. I want a man who can say the damnedest things and make me want to laugh, even when it's hardly the time. And I want someone..." Claire swallowed. "I want someone who can just _look in my eyes,_ and I'll _know_ that he loves me, whether or not he says it."

Angela shook her head slowly, reaching out and resting her hand on Claire's shoulder, her eyes honest and sad. "I'm sorry, Claire."

"I know that he loved me," Claire whispered so quietly that Angela could hardly hear her. "And our baby." Her eyes met her grandmother's, severe and solemn and red with tears. "A man does _not_ get on his knees and place his ear to the stomach of a woman, talking to the child in her womb and promising to protect him, unless he loves them both."

With that, Claire turned on her heel and walked into the bathroom, splashing water from the tap onto her face and rubbing her eyes. Angela, not for the first time, wondered if she had made a huge mistake.

"Who killed him?" Claire asked, voice hollow.

And Angela replied before she could stop herself, "Nathan."

Claire's eyes closed, the lids red and swollen.

"The cremation will be in three days at Coyote Sands," Angela said, and when Claire froze, she knew that she had heard. "No one can know, Claire. This secret will have to be taken to the grave."

Green eyes looked up into the mirror, connecting with Angela's, all the emotion inside them faded and dead.

The woman shuddered slightly. "I'll see you there, Claire."

The door shut behind her without a sound.

 

* * *

 

The flames lit up the area with red and orange, illuminating the crowd that stood around the fire—Suresh, Parkman, Hiro, Ando, Peter, Claire, Bennet, Nathan, and Angela.

Nathan had lit the kindling aflame, which quickly caught onto the body. Sylar lay atop the pile of wood, arms crossed over his chest, possibly asleep if not the fact that he was being burned and there was a six-inch metal spike stuck in the back of his head.

When a tear or two leaked from Claire's eyes, she wiped them away and blamed it on the smoke.

"It's a new beginning, Mom," Claire heard Nathan say, and never so much had she hated him as she did in that moment.

The only sound for another moment was the crackling of the fire.

"I take it the President agreed to it?" Bennet asked Nathan, whose arm was around his mother.

"Funding, resources... deniability," Nathan agreed, nodding. "I told them I found just the man to head up our new..." He frowned, looking to Bennet. "What were we gonna call it?"

The man in the horn-rimmed glasses smiled vaguely and replied, "I always liked 'the Company'."

Claire stared at the man in the flames, feeling her heart break a little more, despite thinking that it wouldn't be able to. She walked over to her father, leaving Peter's side, and couldn't help murmuring, "I can't believe he's really dead."

Noah's voice was unreadable when he replied, "He's really dead, Claire... He really is."

Her hands clenched and she couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the man she loved—the man she was watching burn. Noah started to lead her away, and Claire allowed him to guide her back towards their car.

It wasn't until she was almost there that a thought struck her, and she ran back to where Angela and Nathan remained.

"Angela," Claire said softly. "What are you going to do with the ashes?"

The woman frowned. "I was going to leave them."

Claire's eyes narrowed and she shook her head. "No. No, I want them."

Noah, who had followed his daughter back, froze, eyes widening. Nathan's eyes moved to his daughter. "Claire—"

"Don't," she whispered, eyes flickering to Nathan. "Don't you dare talk to me right now."

Angela pursed her lips, glancing at Peter, Nathan and Bennet before she glanced back to the blonde, whose fists were clenched at her sides and whose eyes were desperate with loneliness.

"Alright," Angela sighed. "I will have them sent to you."

She saw Claire's eyes start to shine with tears, at least until Claire bit down on her lip and blinked them back. "Thank you."

The eldest Petrelli nodded and Claire turned, walking away from her confused uncle, stricken father, and the man who watched her with an unreadable look as she walked away, his eyes following every step as he fought the urge to follow, to comfort her and hold her, though he knew it wasn't his place.

Claire didn't speak a word the whole way home.

 

 


	4. Liar, Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre 4x1

A month passed.

Part of Claire was still in denial, still thinking that she might turn around one day and he would be standing there, but she knew that wasn't the case. Unlike the other times that he had supposedly "died", Claire had actually seen it this time—seen him with a spike in his brain, watched him be reduced to ashes.

There was no coming back from that.

She was starting to feel movement in her stomach, at nearly six months along in her pregnancy. Her belly had finally started to round, and she was forced to wear baggy shirts and sweatshirts to hide the evidence. Her son, Sylar's son, was getting bigger every day, and Claire knew that she wouldn't be able to hide it for much longer.

She needed to get away from her mother and father.

Soon.

But Sylar's ashes had not yet arrived yet, and she didn't feel like she could leave until she had that closure... the chance to say goodbye.

So, when she walked down the stairs one afternoon and saw a box resting atop the island counter, she felt her heart plummet. She knew what it was, and while relieved that they had finally arrived... it was proof.

Sylar was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

_But I love you!_

But it hadn't been enough. He refused to flee from Peter and Nathan, and his stubbornness had cost him his life. He'd died at Nathan's hand—the man who had made half of her had taken what _felt_ like half of her away.

Claire slit the tape with a pair of scissors, extracting the small, silver jar and holding in her hands, hardly able to believe that this was all that was left of him. The man who had fought for power and immortality had been reduced to this- a pile of dust.

The man she had loved—still loved—gone.

Claire's keys were already in her pocket, and before she knew it, she was out the door, urn in hand. She had to do something to remember him, put him somewhere that she could always look back on and return to. Her car was on and pulling out of the driveway before it registered.

Claire slid out of her car, her senses immediately assaulted by the scent of salt on the air and waves against the sand. She had been here with Sylar more than two months ago, where she had told him that she was pregnant with his baby.

It was here that he had knelt on the sand and pressed his ear to her belly, listening to the heartbeat of his son while his hands stroked over her skin.

It was here that he promised to protect her and their child.

Claire swallowed, eyes scanning the beach, still lighted by the sun in the late afternoon. She kicked off her shoes at the edge of the path, just as she had done all those weeks ago, and walked barefoot to the edge of the water.

Removing the lid of the urn, Claire crouched, carefully overturning the jar and watching as the ashes mixed with the waves, quickly disappearing with the tide. She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to cry, and whispered, "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, too."

She stepped back from the line of waves, falling back to sit on the sand and watch as she sun slowly lowered over the water, painting the sky orange and red in a way that reminded Claire far too much of the fire that Sylar had burned in. That fire had haunted her nightmares, along with other things- figures that moved in the edge of her vision, always gone when she turned back. Thinking that she saw someone standing behind her when she looked in the mirror, but no one was there.

Sandra had seen a few of these little episodes, seen the terrified look in Claire's eyes when she had them and the crushing loneliness that overcame her when she realized she was alone. Her father, off working for the government in Washington and still mostly banned from their family home, had barely been around for the past month.

She had five months left before college, and barely more than three until Noah would be born. There wasn't much time before her family would notice—because as much as Sandra put blind trust in her daughter, she _had_ to catch on to the larger shirts and sweaters eventually. Claire knew she would have to leave before that happened.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, arms wrapped around her knees and chin resting atop them, just watching the way the water made patterns over the sand, the way it washed up stones and seaweed and tiny little crabs before it grabbed them and pulled them back in.

She wondered if life was like that; if everyone just washed up one day, and could just as quickly be gone.

Tears built in her eyes at the thought, and though she fought to hold them back, they eventually won her over and she cried.

She didn't notice when a man walked up behind her, silently observing the jar laying at her side and the puffy redness of her eyes. He swallowed, not sure what to make of the picture, and knew that if he wanted answers, he would have to talk them out of her.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're grieving, Claire," Noah Bennet said, hands in his pockets as he stood, staring, at the ocean.

Claire gasped as her eyes turned up to his, hastily wiping her eyes and sniffling. "No. No, that's not it," she replied.

"Then you might want to explain what you're doing here with _that_ ," Bennet said, shooting a glance at the jar. "And why you're crying. Because, from where I stand, there's not a whole lot of other ways to see the situation."

Claire swallowed, shaking her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "It's not like that," the blonde whispered. "It's just... remembering everything... it hurts, Dad."

Noah sighed heavily, sitting cross-legged next to his daughter and placing a hand on her shoulder. "I don't see why you didn't just leave him where he was," the man sighed with a shake of his head. "You shouldn't have brought him here, Claire. You should have just let the dust settle where it lay, instead of stirring it up again."

_Dust,_ Claire thought. _How fitting._

"I couldn't leave him there," Claire said quietly before she could stop herself. At Noah's surprised look, she added, "Coyote Sands is a memorial to the past, to all those who died there. It didn't seem right to leave him with them. He needed to go somewhere else... somewhere that no one would know about. Somewhere that I could watch change and grow, unaffected by him. Like me." _And like our son._

Noah sighed heavily, his arm slipping around her shoulders and tugging her close into his side. Claire prayed that he couldn't feel her stomach under the layers of her sweatshirts. "Claire, you're a good girl with a good heart. It hurts to see you so torn apart. I promised that I wouldn't let him hurt you anymore, and I've already failed you."

"It's not your fault," she whispered. "I think... I think it's just being here, living in that house... every time I walk down the stairs, I can't help remembering what happened to me. I think..." She inhaled deeply, letting out her breath in a long sigh. "I think I need to leave California for a little while."

Noah turned to stare at her, the light glinting off his glasses. "What?"

"Yeah," Claire repeated, voice growing stronger as she continued. "I need to leave the West Coast for a while. I need to just get out of here, get some time away..." And idea clicked in her head. "I'll go live with Angela. She can help me get all this college stuff straightened out, and, come fall, I'll be able to go to Arlington stress-free. I'll be with family. And New York is a whole lot closer to D.C. than Costa Verde."

Noah frowned, considering her carefully. "I'm not sure about that, Claire. I know your mother would like to spend more time with you-"

"It's not like I'll never come back," Claire reminded him. "And I think that it'll be good for me. I'll be able to get used to living in a big city again, around people. I need that."

The man huffed, but smiled a little. "Alright, Claire. I'll call Angela tonight- we'll get you sent out as soon as we can."

"Thank you, Dad," the blonde said quietly, hugging him and closing her eyes, only for a moment. "Thank you."

 

* * *

 

It was the next day that Claire got what she was looking for- she was headed to New York, headed to Angela, the only person that knew of her situation and would know how to handle it.

Claire grunted in frustration as she attempted to zip her suitcase closed, full of clothes and cosmetics, of her textbooks and pictures and memories. She would make New York City her new home... and her son's.

Sighing as she rested her hand against her belly, Claire sat on her bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

"It's a new beginning," Claire whispered to herself, repeating Nathan's words from all those weeks before. Though she could hardly stand to think about him now, at least those words were correct- this was the start of a new life, a new beginning.

She was going to have to move on from Sylar and devote her life to her baby, and to her education.

"Claire!" Sandra called up the stairs. "Are you ready? We have to leave for the airport in ten minutes!"

"Coming," Claire replied, sighing as she sat up and slipped on her jacket, toeing on her tennis shoes and pulling her massive suitcase off her bed, carry on bag slung over her shoulder. She looked back at her old room, and her old life, and turned off her bedroom light, closing the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

"Let's go."

Angela was waiting when Claire arrived at the airport the next morning, the Haitian at her side. Claire didn't protest when the man took her suitcase off her hands, carrying it himself, but denied him to carry her backpack- she could handle _something_ by herself, at least. She wasn't _that_ pregnant yet.

The driver waited outside in the parking lot, opening the doors for Claire to slide in and settle heavily against the comfortable seats, back tense. Angela watched her granddaughter with cautious eyes, nodding when the Haitian took his place at her side.

"Claire," Angela greeted, eyeing the privacy screen that was raising behind them. "You look exhausted, dear."

"I am," the blonde mumbled. "Nightmares. I can't sleep."

"Memories?" the woman asked with a small smile.

"That would be correct." Claire lay her head back against the seat, covering her mouth with her hand as she yawned. "It seems that I can't get away from them. That, and it was a long flight."

Angela nodded, crossing her legs at the ankles and sitting back, folding her hands across her lap and considering the girl that rested before her. "I'm guessing that your family doesn't know about your pregnancy, correct? You're under stress, Claire, but no amount of stress would send you here unless you had absolutely nowhere else to turn."

"You got me," Claire replied, rolling her eyes slightly. "You're the only person who knows the truth, now, Angela, beside myself. And, of course, you," she added, glancing at the Haitian. "I trust both of you, at least, as much as I can, considering the circumstances. But this needs to stay hidden, and I need to disappear until college starts—and I need to show up healthy, smiling, and not-pregnant."

"Which rules out the mansion," the Petrelli woman replied. "People are dropping in at random far too much for you to have any sort of stable environment."

"So what do you suggest I do?" the girl asked, sitting up straight and resting a hand on her stomach. "I'm assuming that you have some other plan. You always do."

A tiny smile quirked at Angela's mouth. "You know me quite well, Claire. Yes, I've arranged another place for you to stay, one that is secure and will hopefully provide you some sort of comfort."

Green eyes narrowed in confusion, looking out the window as the buildings passed, not the usual skyscrapers of Manhattan, but the shorter, less-flashy buildings of western Long Island. "Where are you taking me, Angela?"

"Somewhere that you will be safe. Now, I've taken the liberty of registering the apartment to one _Sarah Gray._ I've gotten your identification and paperwork right here- you'll need to stick to the story, and no slipping up."

"Sarah _Gray?_ " Claire asked, wide-eyed. "Angela, please tell me that you're not doing what I think you're doing."

The woman's dark, stern eyes narrowed at her granddaughter. "Claire, let me make this very clear. Hospital records are not out of reach to the Company and to the government, and if they run a backup check on you and find that a girl named Claire Bennet, age seventeen, gave birth to a baby boy named Noah Gray, you can bet that there will be agents kicking down your door in a heartbeat. They will take your son away from you, Claire, and you will be suspected of treason and harboring a criminal, even though we all know that Sylar is dead."

Claire winced.

"However, if a record shows up that Sarah Gray, age twenty-two and resident of Queens, gave birth to a baby boy named Noah Gray, they may overlook the issue. Perhaps it will be a bit suspicious, but with all likelihood, the matter will be forgotten. And, in a few months, should they go looking for you there, you will be at college."

"And Noah?" Claire asked with a frown. "Where will he be? I can't take him with me, as much as I'd like to."

Angela smiled a bit. "While you are gone, Noah will stay in the care of a trusted associate who has been living locally with his partner. When I told him of your predicament, he volunteered for the job." The woman glanced at the Haitian, who smiled a small bit.

"The Haitian?" Claire asked incredulously. "No offense, Angela, but isn't he kind of like your... bodyguard? I don't want Noah getting pulled into the Company's business." She frowned, looking at the dark-skinned man. "But... I know he'll be safe with you. You'll protect him and treat him well? Despite his... lineage?"

The man nodded, his voice soft when he answered, "I will treat your son well. Though I am Angela's bodyguard, as you say, it has also been my job to protect the Petrelli family heirs- that includes you, Claire. And, while I have no love for the boy's father, I can not bear your son ill will because of it. I had no control over my father, either."

Claire nodded a little in return, her eyes lowering to the floor. "And you have a partner to help you?"

"Yes," the man said, leaning forward slightly. "My wife, Annalise. She has wished for a child for many years, but is unable to have one herself. We will treat him like our own, and you may see him whenever you wish."

Claire bit her lip, looking up and locking eyes with the man. She didn't like the thought of leaving her baby boy, but she knew it would have to happen—there was no way that she could bring Noah with her to Arlington, and at least this way, he could be safe.

"Okay," she replied, swallowing. "That'll work."

"Claire, if I am to be taking care of your son, it is time you knew my name," the man added with a tilt of the head. "My name is Rene."

"Rene," Claire repeated quietly. "It's a nice name. Alright, then, Rene—and thank you. For everything."

The man gave her a grateful smile before the car came to a halt, and Claire, Angela and the Haitian man climbed out. The man moved to the trunk, pulling out Claire's suitcase, Claire carrying her own bags and Angela leading the way into the apartment building before them. They took the stairs up a few floors before they stepped into a hallway, walls whitewashed and floors a dark, worn wood. Angela unlocked the front door with a small, silver key, and they stepped inside.

Claire's eyes took in every detail of the room, from the tiny kitchen to the dusty books shelved on the far wall. Dropping her bags at her feet, she took a few cautious steps inside, inspecting a small clock that rested on the mantle above a tiny fireplace. Its hands were unmoving, the machine silent with disuse and covered in dust.

"He lived here, didn't he?" Claire asked quietly, turning back to her grandmother.

Angela nodded, motioning for Rene to return to the car. "Yes, he did. It was here that he lived as Gabriel Gray, the watchmaker from Queens. Of course, there was some... damage that had to be repaired, but that was done over three years ago, now, and the place has been empty ever since. It's spacious and well-insulated, and the residents of the building mind their own business, for the most part. It is an ideal place for you to spend your time before college, and can remain your home for as long after that as you desire."

"I can't afford this," Claire murmured, turning in place, taking in the other rooms that branched off from the living room. "I don't even have a job—"

"Everything—rent, utilities, all of your expenses—is already covered. I put money in an account, and all your bills are directly deducted from there. If left alone, it should cover this place for at least five years, easily. As for anything else," Angela reached into the inside of her jacket, pulling out a manilla folder and handing it to the blonde. "It's in here. New driver's license, passport, social security. There's a debit card that will withdraw from another account, one specifically for your needs."

Claire frowned, taking the folder and thumbing through the documents, extracting the identification and placing it on the kitchen counter, followed by the card. "How much is in the account?" She asked.

Angela smiled vaguely. "Approximately four million dollars."

The girl's mouth fell open, eyes widening, and stared at the woman in disbelief. "Four—four _million?_ What the hell would I need four million dollars for?"

The woman shrugged. "Textbooks are expensive. Also, it will buy you a new wardrobe, food, things for Noah- anything you can think of, Claire. Including new furniture, renovation..." She eyes the apartment speculatively. "I'm assuming that there is more work to be done, and even if there isn't, the furniture is hardly suitable for a young woman expecting a child."

Claire sighed, running a hand through her hair and searching for words. She came back speechless. "Thank you, Angela," she said quietly.

"Oh, hush," the woman said, patting her cheek fondly. "Just stay out of trouble. If your father tells me he's coming, I'll be sure to distract him."

Claire nodded, looking over the papers. "So... my name is Sarah Gray. I'm twenty-two, graduated with honors from a high school here in Queens, and am working on my Bachelor's degree in Criminal Psychology—wow, ironic, much?"

She rolled her eyes at her grandmother, who chuckled. "I thought you might appreciate that little bit of humor."

The girl snorted and continued. "I was raised by a single mother who recently passed away—oh, that sucks—and I changed my name from Sarah Miller to Sarah Gray four years ago. Joy. Wait—brown eyes? I don't have brown eyes."

Angela nodded, stepping up to her granddaughter and laying a hand on her shoulder. "Get contacts. And, while you're at it, I'd suggest you cut your hair. While you are in this building, you are Sarah Gray, expectant mother. Outside, you are still Claire Bennet, and you need to be very careful of who you let know that fact."

Claire sighed. "I understand."

Angela brushed a stray strand of her hair from her face. "Food is in the fridge, cleaning supplies are under the sink. If you need anything, call my cell."

Claire inhaled deeply, turning and looking around once more before she hugged her grandmother lightly. "Thank you."

"Any time, Claire," the eldest Petrelli replied. "I hope everything works out for you."

 

* * *

 

Claire spent the next few months in a flurry of boxes and bags.

The first month, Claire spent her time cleaning, going through rolls of paper towel and bottles of Windex. It took work, and her arms were left aching when she was done, but the apartment was clean and finally ready for furnishing. She'd bought contacts and cut her hair to her shoulders, maturing her look into that of a woman and not just a young, stubborn cheerleader.

The second month, Claire went through at least ten furniture stores, purchasing a dining room table and chairs, a coffee table, a computer desk, a leather sofa and reclining chair, and a bed frame and mattress. From everything she was reading from the baby books she'd picked up, she was "nesting"—and though she wasn't entirely fond of that term, she had to admit that it was true. Everything was soft and warm and comfortable, finally the stress fading as she made herself a nice home for herself and her baby.

The third month was spent lounging around her apartment, _Sarah_ getting to know some of the neighbors, including a woman down the hall who was also expecting. The two alternated apartments frequently, sharing ideas for their nurseries and trading books. The woman, Victoria, was expecting a baby girl with her husband, who worked in New Jersey and was gone sometimes for days at a time.

At her third month alone, she had only two left before college, and she was in her eighth month of pregnancy. Her belly was now undeniable, and even baggy sweatshirts couldn't hide it. Claire had mostly given up on them, anyway, living in yoga pants and tank tops, since her apartment was usually warm on its own. It was July... and Claire was still having the dreams.

And then it was August.

Claire's—or, rather, Sarah's—due date was quickly approaching. Noah had been shifting restlessly inside her for almost a week, and sometimes Claire would putter around her bedroom or rearrange the nursery and talk out loud, feeling him kick every so often at the sound of her voice. She'd taken to playing music throughout her home, and the baby seemed to like that as well. Just knowing he was there made Claire's smile a little brighter.

It was the twelfth of August when Angela showed up at her door—a week and a half before her due date.

"Angela!" Claire exclaimed in surprise, opening the door and beckoning her grandmother inside. She shut and locked the door behind her. "What brings you here? Can I get you anything to drink? Please, sit."

Bare feet padded across the wooden floor as she walked to the fridge, rummaging through. "I have milk, grapefruit juice, water... I think I have a Pinot Noir somewhere in here, too."

The woman smiled a little, taking a seat on Claire's armchair, as the couch was covered in blankets and books and Claire's open laptop. "Pinot Noir? I should certainly hope you're not drinking, Claire. It isn't good for the baby."

"It wouldn't hurt me _or_ him," the blonde answered, making a little _aha_ under her breath and extracting the bottle from the back of her refrigerator. "Oh, here it is. I only have a glass every once in a while with Victoria—not a full glass, mind you, just half. I just like the taste."

"Victoria?" Angela asked with a frown. "Claire, I thought I told you to stay out of trouble—"

"Relax," the girl sighed, pulling two glasses from her cupboard and filling them halfway, setting the bottle on the counter and bringing them over. Angela accepted hers and Claire retreated to her couch, pulling her legs up and resting on a rather large pillow with a groan. "Oh, that feels nice. This little guy's heavy." She took a slow sip before she set the glass on a side table. "Yeah, Victoria. She lives down the hall—she's having a girl. Next month, I believe. She's naming her Kenzie."

"I'm assuming that she's Sarah's friend," the woman replied, sitting up straighter.

"Of course," Claire answered, frowning and laying a hand against her stomach. "She's been a good friend. It'll be a shame to leave her behind when I go to college, but that's life." She reclined into the cushions, laying her head back against the brown leather. "How have you been? Talked to anyone lately?"

"Your father."

"Which one?"

"Both," Angela said with a tiny frown. "Noah's been asking for you, but I've told him you're visiting Peter and running errands. Nathan—"

"But I haven't visited Peter," Claire protested. "And if he checks in with him and finds that out, he'll get suspicious."

"That won't be an issue. Peter has been avoiding everyone lately—taking double, sometimes triple shifts. He's obsessed with saving lives."

"Well, I guess that's a good thing," the girl muttered.

"And Nathan," Angela started again. "Has been asking for you, too. He says that he misses you, Claire, and would like to see you."

"I don't want to see him." Claire reached for her glass, taking another long drink and staring at the red liquid within, remembering— _sitting beside him, glass in hand as he brushed his fingers over her cheek, eyes half-lidded and locked on her face, careless of the cameras—_ "He makes me think of things I don't want to remember."

"Then, it's a good thing that I told him you were preparing for college."

But there was worry in the woman's dark eyes, and Claire picked up on it almost immediately, maternal instincts noticing every twitch of the woman's thin lips.

"What's going on?" Claire asked with a frown. "He's okay, isn't he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Angela huffed. "Anyway, that's not what I came here to talk about. I came because I had a dream, and because you need to pack a bag."

Claire's eyes narrowed, draining what remained in her wine glass and setting it aside. "A dream? Excuse me for saying so, but I'm not hugely enthusiastic on your dreams, Angela. They only bring pain."

"Well," the Italian woman said with a frown. "This one is bringing your son."

Claire froze. "Noah? But I'm not due for another week—"

"I dreamed it, Claire, and my dreams aren't wrong." Angela stood, bringing hers and Claire's glasses to the sink and rinsing them. "Noah will be born within the next twenty-four hours. Now, go pack a bag with a few changes of clothes and things to amuse yourself. Labor is a long and uncomfortable process, even if you can't feel pain."

Claire stared at the woman, her hands clenching in her blanket. "But..." she trailed off into silence. "I'm not ready."

"Then I suggest you prepare yourself," the woman replied. "He cannot stay in your stomach forever, Claire. Now, go. If you're that worried, I'm sure Rene wouldn't mind taking him the moment he's delivered."

"No!" the girl exclaimed, standing, eyes wild. "He's mine. I've carried him, I've loved him— _alone._ "

"Then get ready."

Claire pursed her lips and went to her room, grabbing a large tote bag from where it lay near her bed, placing a few shirts and pants inside, along with undergarments, and, after some hesitation, a tiny blue onesie and diapers, a fluffy blue blanket laid over the top.

_Sylar, I'm not ready,_ Claire thought, her heart beating rapidly in her chest, stomach clenching. _I never thought I'd have to do this without you. You promised that you'd be here when I needed you most._

But Claire was alone as she slipped her feet into her shoes and pulled on her jacket, coincidentally the same one she'd worn that night at the beach and now barely fit around her stomach, which clenched again at the thought. She was going to the hospital to deliver her baby- the baby that only she, Angela and Rene knew about.

Sylar was gone.

It was time to move on.

_I guess I'll just have to face the fact that Noah will never know his father._ Claire swallowed, zipping her bag closed and slipping it onto her shoulder. _Maybe it's better this way. Rene and Annalise will help me, and once I'm done college, I can be with him again. No one has to know the truth._

"Claire?" Angela called. "Are you getting ready?"

"Yeah, hang on—" And then her stomach clenched again, and Claire's legs were wet. "Shit!"

"What?" The woman asked, hurrying to Claire's room and seeing her granddaughter. "Oh, your water's broken. Well, go change, we'll get you to the hospital. You've started labor."

"How can you be so calm?" Claire exclaimed, snatching sweatpants and underwear from her dresser, stripping out of her soiled clothing in the bathroom and pulling the clean ones on. "I'm going to have my baby—the kid no one can know about, and I'm supposed to be leaving for college in two weeks! What do I do with that, Angela? How am I supposed to forget he exists, to act normal while I force a smile for everyone else?"

"Well, you need to _have_ the boy before you can complain about him," Angela sighed, placing her hand on Claire's back and leading her from the room. "Grab your identification and let's move. It's nearly five, and the last thing we need is to get caught in rush-hour traffic."

Claire grabbed her wallet and keys before the woman pushed her from the apartment, locking the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

Claire huffed as another wave of contractions washed over her, painless but certainly uncomfortable in a way she'd never experienced. Though her body was a super healer, it seemed to not want to cooperate with childbirth, as she hadn't fully dilated yet and it was nearly midnight.

She was getting close, though, at a bit over nine centimeters and finally starting to make better progress. The contractions were approximately ever four minutes, getting stronger and more uncomfortable, but also helping to push her baby out, finally.

"Shit!" Claire cursed, hands clenching on the support rail of the bed. Angela sat in a chair off to the side, sipping at a cup of coffee, and Rene was peering out through the blinds to the city below. At that, both turned to her, Angela with a frown and Rene concerned.

"Really, now," Angela sighed. "You can't even feel pain. If you could, I assure you, you'd be screaming by now."

"Relax," Rene soothed, his fingers pulling an elastic band from Claire's wrist and typing her hair back away from her face for her. "It isn't supposed to be fun, but the less tense you stay, the better it will go."

"I'll try," Claire whispered. "Thank you. Ah—ow! Damn it!"

With much more swearing and a bit more time, Claire was finally ready to push and couldn't be more grateful to get the kid out if he was so desperate to do so. She bit down on the strap of her tank top, hands clenched as she strained her body.

"God _damn_ it!" Claire yelled, pain washing over her in a wave. "That _asshole!_ "

"C- _Sarah_ , stop yelling," Angela scolded, sitting at the girl's bedside with Rene right beside her, who looked slightly pale in the face of Claire's pain.

"Rene, you're _killing_ me!" the girl hissed. "Turn it _off!"_

"I'm sorry," the man mumbled, a vein twitching in his forehead as his ability stopped and Claire's clicked back on.

The girl slumped back against her pillow, her breath heaving as her pain disappeared, leaving only the uncomfortable tensing behind.

"Sarah, you have to keep pushing, honey," the doctor insisted. "He's almost crowning!"

" _Gonna kill him!_ " Claire whimpered, and Angela didn't have the heart to remind her that he was dead. The girl bared her teeth, a strangled groan escaping her mouth.

"That's good! Keep at it, he's almost here!"

Claire squeezed her eyes shut. _I needed you here with me._

And then the pressure was gone. Claire opened her eyes wearily, focusing on her doctor as she patted the back of a tiny figure, cord cut, pale and wrinkled—and still.

"Oh my god," Claire breathed. "Oh, god. He's okay, right? Please tell me he's okay."

A nurse brought over a small rubber instrument, extracting the natural plugs from the baby's nose, and with a quiet cough, the boy started to cry.

"He's fine," the doctor said with a smile. "Completely natural. Don't worry, Sarah. Now we're jut going to clean him up and we'll bring him right back to you, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered, eyes burning with tears as she lay eyes on her son for the first time. "Alright."

"Good. Time of birth, 1:06 AM on the thirteenth of August... eight pounds, four ounces..." It was only a few moments before the he was cleaned and checked over. However, once he was, he was wrapped in a blue blanket and returned to Claire, who held him carefully, hand behind his head, and started to cry in earnest.

He was _here—_ the baby that had been growing inside of her for nine months. The little boy that she had felt moving just under her skin, the boy she had been so careful to hide.

The baby that Sylar had promised to protect. His _son._

Her son.

"Do you have a name for him?" the doctor asked with a soft smile.

Claire nodded, her eyes focusing on the woman's face when she whispered, "His name is Noah. Noah Gabriel Gray."

* * *

Claire's life with Noah was surprisingly simple.

He woke up one or two times a night, usually just for Claire to feed him or change his diaper before he went back down without too much hassle. He napped well, about two hours on average, and ate whatever Claire gave him.

Victoria fawned over him, saying that he looked just like her, with his blonde hair and brown eyes and high cheekbones. However, Claire could only see Sylar in the face of her son.

Her eyes were contact-brown and dull, but Noah's were bright and curious, flecked with green, just like Sylar's. Sure, the boy had blonde hair and her cheekbones, but he had his father's mouth, his forehead...

He was clearly Sylar's son, if anyone knew him enough to notice. Because, generally those who saw him never saw him again. Or anything else.

But it would be enough for Rene, for Angela... for Peter, Nathan, and her father.

But that didn't matter to Claire- she had fallen in love with the little boy, her baby, as soon as she had seen him. She could barely set him down- most of the time, she'd either lay next to him on the floor, counting tiny fingers and toes time and time again, or set him on his stomach on her bed, watching him as he slept.

Victoria had taken a picture of them a few days after they arrived home from the hospital. In it, Claire was leaning back against the arm of the couch, Noah held to her chest. Wide eyes fixed on his mother, Noah's little hand was touching the corner of her smiling mouth. Claire's eyes were warm, though maybe a little sad, as she watched her son. A warm glow was cast over the two of them from the fireplace.

Claire had put the picture in a simple silver frame, setting it next to the broken clock on the mantle. On the back, she had written the very same words that she wore against her skin every day, where no one could see.

_I know how to make love stay._

On the back of the picture, on the inside of her ring. Both perfect examples of the only two things Sylar had ever given her, while taking two things of her own for himself—her necklace and her heart.

As college grew closer and closer, Claire had started to pack again—clothes, possessions, but the only two things that really mattered she kept close, her ring securely on her finger and a copy of the picture safely folded inside of her jacket.

Claire dreaded the day that she would have to hand off her son to Rene. It wasn't that she didn't trust the man; far from it. It was just that she wouldn't be near him, would miss out on the essential first months of his life, his first time sitting up, maybe even his first steps. She couldn't bear to imagine missing all of it... but she had to.

Because, even with Sylar's death, their secret had to stay a secret. No one could know that they'd had a relationship, as brief as it may have been, and certainly not that Claire had been pregnant with Sylar's son. No one. Not even the people she trusted the most.

When Rene showed up at her apartment with Annalise at the end of August, Claire thought that she just might die. Instead, she hid her weakness and handed over a bag filled with his clothing, bottles and diapers, and then her son to Rene.

As soon as he was out of her arms, Noah started to cry, and before Claire knew it, she was crying, too- she didn't want to start over, not again. She just wanted to stay with her baby, maybe get a job, drop the identity of Claire Bennet and live on as Sarah Gray, mother of Noah Gray.

But that wasn't possible, and she, Rene and Angela all knew it.

So when Claire arrived at Arlington University the next day, box in her arms as she stared up at the _Welcome Freshmen_ banner, her mind was definitely fixed on her fear of college.

But she would be a liar if she didn't admit that ninety-nine percent of her thoughts were taken up by Noah.

 

 


	5. The Lies We Tell Ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x1 "Orientation"

Claire walked up the dark wooden stairs, box balanced on one hand and duffel held in the other as she finally reached her floor. Turning onto gray-carpeted stairs, her eyes scanned the numbers stenciled white-on-blue on the walls, distracted by another girl walking by for a moment before she found her room, _602_ beside a blue door.

She nudged the door open with her foot and was almost immediately assaulted by the image of an immaculate pink-and-brown bedspread, plaques hung on the wall above neatly organized bulletin boards and brightly colored accessories on the side table. Wincing, she took in the sad and plain sight of her own empty cot and cheap desk.

It was a far cry from what she was used to, but it was her only option.

Most of all, Claire was worried about sharing her space—it had been months since she'd been in close contact with people, let alone people of her own age. Not to mention that this room was blank and drafty and a little bit too small... it made her miss her apartment in New York, where she had lived and turned into her home.

And she missed Noah more than she could bear.

Claire set her box on her bed, pulling her messenger bag over her shoulder, eyes already scanning the wall a\and its cracked paint and wondering what she could put up there to not make it look so... empty. As much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn't put the picture of her son up there. No, Noah had to stay a secret, close to her heart, even if he was far from her.

"You must be my new roommate!"

Claire turned, taking in the tall, slender girl in the doorway, clothing perfectly straight and her brown bob without a hair out of place. "Yeah, I guess I am," she replied. "I'm Claire."

The girl approached with a huge smile, reaching out to shake her hand. "Hi, I'm Annie. It's nice to finally meet you, Claire."

Claire smiled hesitantly- this girl was just so... perky. It was hardly the kind of person she imagined she'd have to live with, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to handle it. She just hoped that the strangeness would blow over after they got more comfortable. "You too."

"The school, they wouldn't release any information," Annie started in hurriedly. "Otherwise I would have friended you on Facebook." Her brown eyes were wide and earnest.

Claire tensed slightly. "Oh, that's my fault. I always check those little privacy boxes for some reason." _Because I'm the illegitimate daughter of a senator, my Dad was practically a hit man and, oh, I also can heal from anything and am going to live forever. That might be why._

"I did that same thing with my _AP Classmates_ profile after I got a B-plus in AP Physics," Annie agreed with a nod, moving to place her books down on her neatly-organized desk. "Are you on ?"

Turning away uncomfortably, Claire started unloading the contents of her box onto her bed, starting with a blue-shirted stuffed bear that her father had gotten her just over four years ago, at the start of her sophomore year of high school. "No, I'm not in advanced placement. I got my GED." She set the bear down, looking back to the other girl and stiffening at her horrified look. "It's not that I dropped out or anything. I was just traveling, and—"

"You got into _this_ school with a GED?" the girl asked, so incredulous that Claire couldn't help but be offended. "What do your parents do?"

Mouth open slightly, her mind shouted, _that's none of your business!_ Instead she just said, "Uh, my mom breeds championship show dogs..." She sat on the edge of her cot. "And my dad... works for the government."

"So, _that's_ how you got in with a GED!" Annie smiled and nodded like it all made sense.

The blonde's smile was beyond forced by this point. _You're doing this for Noah. Think of Noah._ "No, I just got really good scores."

"Oh. So you'll probably place in Fenten's linear algebra class, then, today."

"Today?" Claire asked in surprise.

"He only takes thirty-five students a semester, and the placement test is today at one o'clock," the brunette supplied. "You get in, and it pretty much sets the whole dominoes into motion, you know?" She smiled, bouncing as she sat on her own perfectly-smoothed bedspread. "So, what's your plan for graduate school?"

Pursing her lips, the green-eyed girl said, "I don't really have one. Guess that's kinda why I'm here."

Annie frowned. "No, you have to go to college _with_ the plan. How are you going to find your future without a map?"

Laughing in disbelief, Claire asked, perhaps a bit rudely, "You have a _map_ of your future?"

"Yeah." Annie wasn't smiling, her expression deadly serious, like what she was talking about was a life-or-death matter. Turning, she pointed to one of the bulletin boards over her bed. "See, I call this my trajectory. This is me in three years, graduating _magna cum laude_ in poli-sci pre-law."

Mouth dropping open, Claire leaned forward to stare at the board, which was complete with brightly-colored words and cutouts of Annie's own head, pasted onto the tiny figures of bodies.

"This is me in eight years, Massachusetts Attorney General. And this is me in twelve years, being sworn in as the youngest governor in U.S history." She looked so pleased with herself and expectant that Claire would be the same.

"Wow," Claire said, lost for words. "You really thought that through."

Annie just stared, brown eyes disapproving as she noticed the stuffed bears on Claire's bed, obviously sizing up the blonde and decidedly taking pity on her. "Don't you think it's time you put childish things behind you and thought this thought yourself, Claire?"

Offended, Claire looked at her bears, her treasured and sometimes _only_ friends in the past, gifts from her father and reminders of who she was and where she came from. She shifted to shield them from the girl's sight.

"I mean, don't let GED be a lifestyle choice."

That comment struck home.

Claire glared at the girl, anger bubbling in her stomach, and she longed to say, _a GED lifestyle? Like what, being a teenage mother and giving all my heart and soul to my baby? What were you doing all that time, Annie? Cutting out the logos for all the federal agencies and memorizing them?_ But she didn't. Claire maintained her control, even when the girl went on.

"I'll tell you what. If you want, I'll help you make your own trajectory! It'll be our project!"

"Sounds great," Claire practically growled.

"Awesome." The girl positively beamed as she stood, gathering a new set of books. "Well, I'm off to my next class. Don't forget about algebra, okay?"

"I won't," Claire muttered. "See you later."

"Bye!"

The door slammed closed behind the girl and Claire let out a huge groan of frustration and anger, obsessively turning her ring on her finger before she forced herself to still by resting her hand on her belly.

_Noah. I miss you already._

* * *

 

Claire hurried out of the lecture hall, bag clenched in hand. _It's getting worse._

After she'd hallucinated about the government agent shooting her, Claire had up and left as fast as she could. She didn't want to believe it until now, but it was true- those things she saw at the edge of her vision sometimes, watching her, they were real. At least, she thought they were real, and that was incredibly alarming. She was hallucinating, seeing things that weren't there, even feeling phantom pain.

It might have been a result of being separated from Noah, but Claire didn't think so. If she was honest, it had been going on for much longer than that- ever since Sylar had died. She had lost the only person she felt truly close to, connected to, and combined with the terror that she would be caught by the repercussions of her actions, it had manifested into _this._

Claire's steps were hurried as she made her way through the crowded sidewalk. _I didn't want to take a math class, anyway._ She was so busy assuring herself of that fact that she hardly noticed walking straight into a squad of cheerleaders who shoved a flier announcing tryouts into her hands. Before she could give it back, they had nudged her on her way.

"No, thank you," she muttered to herself. _Look at what happened the last time I was a cheerleader._

Beside her, a pleasantly low, feminine voice added, "You made the right call. Cheerleaders are a very subversive group. You don't want to mix with that crowd."

Claire blinked in surprise, turning to the girl and laughing in humorlessly in surprise at the person walking beside her. She was tall and pale, dark hair long and slightly tousled, her amused eyes a peculiar shade of brown, bright and flecked with green, highlighted by heavy brows. Broad shoulders were covered by a dark jacket, layered over a striped shirt, legs covered in denim and footwear casual in a pair of fraying black Converse. Thin lips were pulled back in a smile over straight, white teeth.

If Claire hadn't known better, she would say that the girl could be a female Sylar. But that wasn't possible- Sylar was dead, and this girl was far too friendly to be anything like him... even if her condescending disdain for cheerleaders bore an eerie similarity to the man.

"No thanks," she muttered, still slightly reeling. "I used to be one of them." She smiled a little, but it was uncomfortable.

"Oh, so you know," the girl said with a smirk.

"I do," Claire replied easily, actually smiling for real this time. "Were you? You weren't a cheerleader, were you?" She couldn't imagine this tall, graceful girl jumping around and waving pompoms.

The girl's mouth opened in surprise and she looked a little uncomfortable when she said, "Uh...no." She hesitated before she added, "I tried out, but I didn't make the team. They said that my cheers sounded more like taunts."

Claire laughed a little, wincing in sympathy. "Yeah, that's not good."

The girl shrugged, but was smiling when she turned to Claire, holding out her hand. "I'm Gretchen Berg. Who are you?"

_Gretchen. Gabriel._ Claire drew the parallel so quickly that she was almost ashamed to think of it.

Here was this girl, a complete stranger, who was the first friendly person she'd met so far, and she was already drawing up comparisons between her and her dead... whatever he was. There was really no word to describe what she and Sylar had been. _Friend_ was too strange, and nowhere near accurate. _Fuck buddy_ was too... unfeeling, too informal for what they had been. And _boyfriend_ was just too strange to even think about when placed next to the very _idea_ of Sylar.

Placing her hand in the girl's wide, firm grip, she replied, "I'm Claire Bennet."

Gretchen grinned. "Hi, Claire Bennet. So, where are you from?"

Claire hesitated under the influence of so many answers. _Texas. California. New York._ Instead, she started, "Kind of all over the place. I've been in southern California for a while. But, Texas, originally, Odessa."

"Really?" Gretchen lit up, eyes alight with interest and a sudden kinship. "I'm from Austin!"

"Wow, small world," the blonde returned in surprise.

"Oh, wait," Gretchen said suddenly, a pensive look crossing over her face. "You're not _that_ Claire Bennet, are you?"

Anxiousness coiled in Claire's gut when she asked quietly, "And which Claire Bennet would that be?"

Bright brown eyes were locked on Claire's face as their walk slowed to a stop. "Murder-at-Union-Wells-in-Odessa, Claire Bennet?"

Claire stood, stricken and speechless for a long moment. Would the past _never_ fade away? Would she always be remembered as that girl? "You heard about that?"

Gretchen snorted. "A cheerleader gets her head sawed off at the Homecoming game? Yeah, I've heard about that."

The blonde grimaced, scanning the crowd, looking for eyes to overhear Gretchen, eyes that would recognize her and point her out, that would send her into hiding again. She couldn't handle that, not anymore. She let out a sharp exhale, steeling herself and pushing down her emotions when she faced the other girl. "You know, I kind of want the whole _Murder at Union Wells_ on the DL."

The girl grimaced sympathetically. "No kidding," Gretchen said. "I mean, if I were you, I would change my name... like, _now._ They'd probably let you do it over the phone!"

Claire opened and closed her mouth a few times, searching for words as she and Gretchen started off again at a slow pace. "No, they won't," the blonde muttered. "I would know. I changed my name for a while."

"Oh," Gretchen said, then made a face. "Why'd you change it back?"

_Because I had to continue on with the life everyone expected me to live. Because Sarah Gray isn't real. Because I have to protect my heart and soul._ "'Cause I wanted to be Claire Bennet again. I thought people might forget." She shot the brunette a pointed look.

Gretchen shrugged, smiling a bit. "No, girl. Google's your enemy."

_Great. Just what I need, to be the freak all over again,_ Claire grumbled internally. "I, uh, have to take care of something..." Realizing that she was very obviously brushing the girl off, she added, "Nice to meet you."

"You, too," Gretchen replied with a wide smile.

Claire's hands twitched irritably as she walked away, shoving the cheerleading flier into the first trash can she saw.

 

* * *

 

"...and, honestly, I'm sure she could be a really above-average student if she just applied herself!"

That wasn't what Claire wanted to hear as she turned into her room. Feeling the annoyance with her roommate returning in a massive wave, her eyes focused on the girl before they were drawn to the other person, who was seated and listening in amused exasperation to Annie's tirade.

"Claire," Noah Bennet said with a smile, standing.

"Hey, you made it," she said hesitantly, glancing at her roommate.

"Yeah, I'm sorry I'm late," the man with the horn-rimmed glasses replied. "I was having a little trouble with my car."

Claire kept looking at Annie, waiting for her to get the hint.

"And, uh, Annie was just... catching me up."

"Oh, she was?" Claire asked, setting her bag down on her bed, fingers twitching in aggravation.

The brunette stood with a perky smile, oblivious to the offended father and heavily annoyed blonde. "So, I'll see you at the mixer tonight. I hear they have _Guitar Hero III_ set up down there, and, well, I sort of _excel_ at _Guitar Hero III,_ so consider yourself served."

Claire forced a tiny, tight-lipped smile.

"It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Bennet!"

"You too," he replied, his gaze following her as she left the room. After she was gone, blue eyes focused on his daughter, sympathetic and slightly incredulous.

"So, Annie was catching you up?" Claire asked sarcastically with a strange little shake of her head.

"Maybe you can take that algebra class next semester," Bennet replied easily.

Claire wanted to throw something, but instead threw her hands in the air. "See, Daddy, that was probably the _least_ interesting part of my day." She sat heavily on her bed with an exaggerated spread of her arms.

"How so?" Noah asked with a frown.

"I was recognized as a survivor of the homecoming massacre back in Odessa," Claire grumbled irritably. At Noah's horrified look, she added, "Well, my name was."

"I'm sorry," he murmured helplessly. "You know, maybe changing your name back to Bennet wasn't such a great idea, after all. But they say college is for reinventing yourself." He shrugged.

Claire shook her head slowly. "I don't want to pretend to be anyone but me," she sighed. Her eyes moved to her father. "I just want to be Claire Bennet, daughter of Noah Bennet." And m _other of Noah Gray._ Her eyes saddened slightly when her father smiled, moving towards her and kissing her forehead fondly.

She needed to change the subject before she thought any more on the matter. "You know, Annie asked me today what my dad did for a living..." Noah sat next to her, and Claire looked at him. "And I actually told her the truth...ish." At Noah's strange look that she knew was meant to say she should elaborate, she continued. "I told her you work for the government, but still... and I _like_ telling the truth."

_I just wish I could tell you the truth._

"What if my way of reinventing myself is by telling the truth?" She slung an arm around her father's shoulder with a tiny smile.

Noah wrinkled his nose. "...ish."

"Ish," Claire agreed with a nod.

"Maybe not the whole truth."

The girl made a ridiculous face. "The whole truth?"

"No," Bennet agreed with a smile. Tugging her closer into a hug, he murmured, "Just be careful, sweetheart."

_I've been very careful,_ Claire thought. _Too careful. That's the problem._

She sighed when Bennet pulled away from her, standing up. "Well, I just wanted to drop in and say _hi_ ," her father sighed. "I actually have to be getting back. I have some business to take care of. Sure you don't need anything?"

"No, I think I'm okay here," Claire replied, looking despondently at her sparse arrangement of belongings. "But thank you for offering. I love you, Dad."

"And I love you, Claire-bear." Noah smiled, heading toward the door. "Oh, and Claire?"

"Huh?"

Green eyes met mischievously shining blue when he said, "Don't get too worked up about _Guitar Hero._ "

Claire laughed until long after he was gone.

 

* * *

 

The night had been long and fun, filled with a few drinks that Claire had consumed just for the taste and to fulfill the expectations of her peers. She had played a few rounds of Guitar Hero with Gretchen after she'd spotted the other girl leaning against the wall, people-watching by herself. She looked so incredibly like Sylar in that moment that Claire couldn't help but to approach her.

She was starting to find that, despite Gretchen's pushiness about the whole Union Wells thing earlier, she actually quite liked the girl. She was funny and easy to talk to and not incredibly overbearing, unlike Annie. Claire had even been a bit reluctant to part ways when she returned to her room around eleven that night.

"Hey, I didn't see you leave the party!" Claire exclaimed as she opened the door into her empty room. With a sigh, she muttered, "Guess you're still there." _It's no loss of mine._

Noticing the cold breeze that danced over her skin, green eyes found the wide open windows and she sighed. "And you left the windows open." Leaning out to reach for one, a figure at the edge of her vision compelled Claire to glance down at the ground.

She gasped in surprise and horror when her eyes landed on the sprawled form of her roommate on the concrete below, sidewalk flooded red with her blood. God, even the girl's outfit was still pristine, even though her head was likely smashed open on the unexposed side.

Claire tried not to think about the fact that she wasn't nearly as scared or horrified as she should have been when her eyes scanned Annie's bed for a phone, for anything. Then, finding nothing, she ran out of the room to look for the RA.

Was everyone around her destines to die?

_I already know the answer to that question,_ Claire thought. She couldn't help that her stomach only then clenched at that thought.

 

* * *

 

Across the country in Los Angeles, night was falling over the suburbs. In a tiny blue-and-white house on the outskirts of town, Matt Parkman grunted in pain when he stepped on a small, plastic car.

He bent over to pick it up with a sigh, taking a few steps forward into a small room filled with other toys of the like, standing next to a child-sized table littered with crayons and stickers. Matt set the car down before he glanced into the crib set up lengthwise, a blue plaid blanket laid down on the inside and a patchwork stuffed dog balancing on the bar at the end. He frowned when he noticed that it was empty, unease shooting through him in a sharp wave.

_No, Matt,_ he told himself silently. _Stop it. He's probably just hiding. He's fine._ "Matty?"

He reached into the crib, shifting the blankets, even though he knew the crib was empty. He turned in place, eyes scanning the room. "Matty?" He took a step toward the closet, asking in his best _happy-dad_ voice, "Matty, are you hiding again?"

He opened the doors, but his son was nowhere to be found. "Where's Matty?"

When a quiet, panicked crying started behind him, Matt whirled and nearly took a step back in horror when his eyes fixed on the sight before him. Sylar was there, holding Baby Matt carefully in the crook of his arm, helping the boy to wave at his father. The baby's brown eyes were wide and terrified, unsure of this stranger that was filled with such wild, churning emotions.

"Hi, Daddy," Sylar whispered, eyes wild and fixed on Matt's face.

Matt swallowed helplessly when the baby started to cry in earnest, picking up on the stranger's obsessive, pure _need_ and his father's obvious horror. His cries quieted to whimpers when Sylar growled, "I want my body back."

The baby let out another terrified wail, and Sylar blinked in surprise. Impossibly dark brown eyes focused on the little boy, and noting his fear- Matt thought he must have been seeing things- softened. He hitched the boy up higher, his mood settling down to strong and assuring, and Parkman watched in horror as the killer tenderly kissed the top of the baby's head, bouncing him in place.

"You put him down," Matt choked. "Please."

"Oh, poor Daddy," Sylar sighed to the little boy. "He looks pretty scared, huh? Can you say _freaking out?_ " With an amused twitch of his lips, he nuzzled the baby's temple, holding him carefully as he took a few steps away from the cop.

"I don't understand," Matt exclaimed desperately. "How are you even here?"

Sylar turned, and Parkman was confused and alarmed to see that Matty was no longer crying, just watching the interaction with an even calmness and his usual curiosity. Sylar tilted his head to the side and shrugged a little when he answered, "I'm part of you, Matt. Whatever you did to me, I held on. Now I'm inside your head."

"So, you're not real," Matt amended with a frown.

Sylar quirked his head, a thoughtful look crossing over his strong features before he asked, "Then how could I be holding your little boy?" He bounced the child in place again, looking to the brunette boy with a look in his eyes that Matt couldn't interpret.

"Just put him down," Matt breathed.

Sylar sighed and pressed his lips to the boy's temple gently, eyes flickering down to the little hand that rested against his neck and back up to the telepath. "Not until you give me what I want."

Sylar's eyes were intense and not filled with the usual insanity. Instead, there was a desperate want, a terrible, crushing grief that Matt just didn't want to believe was displayed so plainly before him. That would only make the monster more... human.

"You did something to me, to my mind. That's why I'm here." He paused, tensing and calming in less than a second. "Tell me what you did. Where did you put my body?"

Matt was helpless, torn between wanting to fight Sylar off, but incapable of doing so when his son was held so vulnerably in the man's arms. "Okay. Just put him down, and then we'll talk about this."

"Tell me," Sylar demanded quietly.

"Matt?"

Both of their gazes were drawn to the doorway to the baby's room, and Matt almost missed Sylar whispering to the boy, "Here comes Mommy."

Matt looked back at him just in time to see the man's eyes narrow and him mutter, "Catch."

"No!" Matt held out his arms, hoping that his son would be uninjured and—

"Matt, are you okay?" Janice whispered. She stepped up beside the crib, her gaze drawn down to where her son slept peacefully, long, dark curls let free and slender body clothed in a silk dressing robe.

"Yeah," Matt whispered back. "Thought I heard him crying, that's all."

The woman reached into the crib, pulling the blue blanket up over her baby and tucking him in, hands careful and tender over the fragile body of the boy sleeping within. "Matty's fast asleep," she murmured, confused. At Matt's heavy sigh, she reached over to rub his tense shoulders. "What's going on with you?"

"I'm just tired, I guess," the man breathed, his eyes looking down to his son, still unable to forget the look in Sylar's eyes when he had held him.

"Come back to bed," Janice sighed.

Matt nodded absently. That look; he recognized it now.

Longing.

But why?

 

* * *

 

Gretchen had been priceless so far in Claire's theory that Annie had been murdered. No one believed her- the police, her mother, no one. And it hurt that _she_ was the one with the most experience with death, and even Sandra wouldn't take a word she said seriously.

And then came Gretchen.

The girl seemed endlessly intrigued by death. Not that it was a bad thing- in this case, it was actually quite useful, Claire mused, as the girl dropped a stack of books onto the mess hall's table and rattled of titles, all having to do with psychology and homicide of some way, shape or form.

"Where did you get those?" Claire asked, eyeing the multiple-inch-thick textbooks. "The homicide bookstore?"

"Is there such a place?" Gretchen asked, intrigued.

Claire shook her head in exasperation, picking at her food. "Don't you think you're going a _little_ overboard?"

The brunette blinked. "Don't you want to prove that your roommate was defenestrated?"

"Of course," Claire answered, gesturing with the half-pickle she held in hand. "And, yes, I know what _defenestrated_ means." She shot the girl an exasperated smile and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully.

"Well, don't get mad at me for using it in a sentence." Gretchen blinked, her mind moving rapidly from one topic to the next—Claire was starting to recognize the look she got when she did so. "Have you ever heard of the _Jump, Push, Fall_ test?"

Claire shook her head, mumbling through a mouthful of pickle, "The what?"

"It's when cops get a dummy the approximate size and weight of the victim and they throw it out the window to see how it lands."

She looked so amused at this prospect that Claire _had_ to smile. "What page is that on?"

"Oh. It's not in there. I saw it on an episode of _Crossing Jordan._ "

Claire gave her an incredulous look.

"Look, if you fall, you go straight down." She pushed her orange off the stack of books on her desk, catching it in her hand. "If you jump, boom- go a little further." She tossed the orange a bit harder. "But if you're pushed..."

Claire startled when a crash echoed from the table, the girls glaring at them- and Gretchen's orange in the center of their table.

"Sorry," Claire said, grimacing slightly. She stiffened at the sub-zero glares she received and the snotty little cock of the head the girl gave her as she handed back the fruit. She turned back and looked to Gretchen, making a face and making a sarcastic catlike noise under her breath. "Cranky."

Gretchen snorted. "All we need is a dummy the approximate size and weight of Annie."

Claire cocked a brow. "You're not serious."

"Maybe we could swipe a cadaver from the medical school!" Gretchen exclaimed conspiratorially. Brown eyes were lit with far too much glee for this to be normal.

_My roommate was murdered,_ Claire reminded herself. _Of course this isn't normal._ Instead, she just stared at her.

"What?" Gretchen asked, like she had been accused of something horrendous. "It's a victimless crime."

"Let's not get carried away," Claire grumbled.

"Why not? This is murder!"

The cafeteria abruptly went silent at the volume of Gretchen's voice, curious onlookers glancing their way. Claire shrank down in her seat. "Maybe. But I'm not trying to be a social pariah before midterms."

"Ship's already sailed, Claire," the girl replied with a smirk.

_What's that supposed to mean?_ Claire narrowed her eyes at her.

"So where do we get our hands on a dead body?"

Claire rolled her eyes. _Where's Sylar when you need him?_ She snickered at the thought before she abruptly sobered—she knew _exactly_ where he was, unfortunately. Dead. Gone. Ashes scattered to the seas, never to be seen again. _I wish I could at least throw his body out a window. That son of a bitch probably would have gotten some sick amusement out of it. Told me I was getting to be more like him._

Claire sighed heavily, glancing out the window to the trees outside. _At least I could have been able to get him back a little for leaving me alone. He promised me forever, and he broke that promise._

"Claire, I think _you're_ taking this a little too seriously, now," Gretchen replied.

"Just trying to get in the spirit," the blonde said with a shrug.

"Woohoo," the brunette muttered under her breath. "It's body-tossing time!"

Claire choked on her soda.

 

* * *

 

Parkman sat in the uncomfortable metal chair, feeling the familiar faces staring at him. He'd seen then all three times a week for over a month- now, almost two.

It didn't make it any easier. The tie on his neck still felt like a noose, the watch on his wrist like a pair of cuffs. He felt trapped.

It didn't matter that it had almost been half a year that he'd been without his powers. Every day still felt like the first. Especially now.

"Hi, my name's Matt," he said, holding up a hand and waving a bit.

"Hi, Matt," the group chorused with encouraging smiles.

"It's been six weeks since I last... _used_ , and, uh... and I'm feeling... confused." He took a deep breath. "Uh... when I—when I used, I was totally selfish. I didn't think about what I did to others, and, um... how I may have hurt them."

He jolted at the sound of a chair being kicked over, eyes widening when they locked on Sylar across the room. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a black sweatshirt, jeans over trainers. If Matt hadn't known him, he might have even looked normal.

But he did. And Sylar wasn't _real_ , he reminded himself. He was an illusion.

"Sorry," the man whispered sarcastically. "You mean like what you did to me?"

Matt grit his teeth. _He's not real._

"Hi," Sylar chorused like Matt had only moments before. He stepped into the center of the circle, scanning the faces before him. "My name is Sylar." He looked back to Matt. "It's been about six weeks or so since I've seen my body, and _I want it back._ " He hissed the words into Matt's face as he leaned down toward him.

Matt swallowed. "Recently, uh, there have been these, uh, ghosts-" he was distracted when the other officers looked among themselves uncomfortably. "-these things have been popping up from my old life and _haunting_ me." His eyes flickered up to the man staring at him unwaveringly.

"Do you really think you're going to stop using your powers?" Sylar asked with a smirk. "Are you crazy?" He laughed to himself, eyes lit with amusement. "I mean, I bet you couldn't even make it through a day."

He continued to laugh as he backed away, but somehow the sound left Matt more shaken than before. Though condescending, it was just the laugh of a man. A man that he had pushed the mind out of and pushed another mind _into_.

"I can't seem to get these images out of my head," he rushed, eyes flickering back up to Sylar.

"You're weak! You're simple-minded." The man sat heavily in one of the fold-up chairs, considering. "I bet I could make you use your powers."

"Go away!" Matt finally snapped, and the others around him jolted in surprise.

"I could _make_ you use your powers," Sylar repeated.

And then he was gone.

The assembled officers shifted restlessly, all glancing between each other and at the door, uncomfortable with their proximity to a man that very well could have been crazy.

"I'm sorry," Matt said quietly with a helpless shrug.

"Hey, buddy," Arnold said quietly. "You okay?"

Matt's eyes focused on Sylar as he reappeared, leaning toward his friend's ear and muttering, "Does this guy look okay? Seriously?" He chuckled to himself. "I mean, he's, like, twenty pounds overweight, blood pressure's through the roof. He's like a heart attack waiting to happen!"

"Stop it," Matt snarled. "Stop it!"

Another restless shift—Matt sighed. He'd really screwed himself over. But _damn it_ , where was Sylar coming from? He thought he'd gotten rid of him!

"Um..." Arnold muttered. "Let's get things moving along a bit..."

The lanky man laughed, eyes focusing maliciously on the cop.

"Who's next?"

He stared.

"That's right, Parkman," Sylar muttered, leaning toward him. "They can't see me or hear me, as you might have guessed by now—but who can tell, what with your brain capacity." He smirked. "And this is going to be _every day_ for you, unless you give me my body back."

Matt clenched his fists.

This was going to be a _long_ session.

 

* * *

 

"Alright, let me take a crack at this guy, see if I can get him to talk," Matt said, looking through the window at the curly-haired brunette seated in the interrogation room.

"You seemed a little off today at the meeting," Arnold said, stopping Matt before he could enter.

"No, no, no, no. I'm good."

"You sure?"

"I'm good," Matt assured him. "I'm under control, it's good." He patted the man on the shoulder, walking past him and grabbing the cup off the table next to the door before he entered.

He placed the cup before the man, offering a friendly smile. "Double-shot of mocha. You looked like you could use a little pick-me-up." _Don't we all._ He sat with a sigh, and seeing that the man hadn't moved, added, "It's okay. No strings attached."

"Not interested," the man replied, unimpressed.

"Come on," Matt added. "Let's do this easy, right? Just two guys talking. Come on."

"I get it. You are the good cop, how ironic."

Matt's eyes flashed to Sylar. _Oh, god, not again._ He sighed. "So, we need a name, your supplier. Alright? You give us that name, you keep a clean record."

Sylar spun in his chair, but at that stood, hovering over the man. "He's a liar. Totally lying."

Matt stared at him.

"Why are you looking at my forehead?" the man asked, laughing bitterly. "Does it say _schmuck_ or something?"

"I wasn't staring at your forehead," Matt bit out.

"You're not getting a name, coffee boy."

Sylar's eyes narrowed as he sat back in his chair. "Is that all you need, Matt? A name? Seriously? What the hell are you waiting for?" He looked at the nervous man as he glanced around the room. "It's gotta be floating around in his comical little brain somewhere, right?"

"I don't do that anymore," he replied under his breath.

"You don't do what anymore?"

"Why is that? Because you're addicted?" Sylar asked, eyes narrowed.

Matt took a breath before he rushed out, "Leave me alone."

"Who are you talking to?"

" _Just read his mind,_ Matt. You know you want to. I could help you. I could take a nice little chunk out of his skull in the process." Brown eyes were darkly amused as he inspected the man's head, as if he was already considering where to cut through bone.

"Stop it," Matt hissed.

"What's the matter with you?"

Matt clenched his fists. "Just give me a name, okay?"

" _Take it from him._ "

"No!"

" _No_ , what?"

"Why the hell not?" Sylar demanded.

"Leave me alone."

"You are a loser. Total loser," Sylar growled, standing once more. "No wonder your wife is having sex with the water guy."

"Shut the hell up!" Matt exclaimed, pushing himself to his feet.

"I didn't say anything!" the brunette said in alarm.

"I'm not talking to you right now!"

"Come on, Matt," Sylar goaded. "She's cheated on you once already, and we both know what Janice needs is a _real_ man. Someone who's not _afraid_ of power, someone who _knows_ what to do with it."

"I'm in control here, not the power," Matt whispered to himself, voice raising to a shout. "And nt you, you son of a bitch!"

The chair was crashing into the wall in a second, the man on the floor, shaking badly when he popped back up. "Keppeler!" He gasped. "The guy's name is Keppeler. Lives in Long Beach, okay? Just... leave me alone!"

Arnold burst into the room, eyes flickering between Matt and the chair and the man on the floor, drawing the wrong conclusion, but the only right one under the circumstances. He grabbed Matt by the arm and dragged him bodily out of the room, but Matt's mind was still reeling, especially with one observation.

_His eyes were scared when he talked about Janice cheating on me,_ he thought. _What the hell is going on?_

* * *

 

And, later that night, long after he'd used his power to send Roy the Water Guy away, that look still stuck with him.

_Who or what did Sylar have that he was so scared of losing?_

* * *

 

And, later that night, when Claire looked up and saw Gretchen six floors above looking down with wide, horrified eyes at her beaten and bloodied form, she couldn't help being a little disappointed. _Sylar never would have looked at me like that._

* * *

 

And, later that night, when asked what was to come next, a middle-aged Irish man placed an ink-stained dowel against the back of a woman, completely bare but for the map of tattoos it displayed. When three faces formed on her naked skin, he was intrigued, and said, "We gather the rest." He paused, inspecting the inked portraits. "Who are they, Lydia?"

And the woman, Lydia, told him, "They're Claire Bennet, Sylar, and Peter Petrelli. Somehow they're all connected... all to each other, but I see strong ties between Sylar and each of the two."

"What kind of ties?" The man, Samuel, asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Lydia replied, frowning. "At least for him and Peter. The rift is still too large, not yet bridged, but there is potential with great time and patience. But for Sylar and Claire..."

"Yes?" the Irishman insisted.

"Love." The woman glanced back over her shoulder at him, eyes wise and understanding. "If you have one, you will have the other. That's a given. They are a matched set, a pair... soulmates, if you will. But whether or not they know it themselves is yet to be seen. For now, there's a rift. But I think it will be mended soon."

Samuel's thin lips curled into a devious smile. "Perfect."

 

* * *

 

He was watching from the inside, essentially. Living his life through another's eyes. He never imagined that he'd be stuck with the Overweight Oaf, but he could make it fun, at the very least.

Sylar wanted his body back. The need to see with his own eyes, touch with his own hands, breathe his own air, was staggering. With every breath Parkman took, he wanted ten of his own, and promised himself that he would do anything, _anything_ to escape this prison, this hell.

But at the same time, he envied the man. How could a man like Parkman, a man who had never had to fight for anything, have a life like that? A comfortable home, a beautiful woman who loved him, and a son that he could watch grow, could help make decisions, could help make into his own person. How could a man like Parkman have all of that without ever having to fight like Sylar had?

From where he stood, it wasn't fair in the least.

But, god, even the phantom feeling of holding that child was enough to make Sylar's chest tighten.

_How long has it been?_ He thought. _Has Noah been born? What's Claire doing, and where is she? Is she managing alright?_

In a void like this, there were no answers. But he was getting stronger every day. For almost six months, he'd been crammed in the back of Parkman's head—at first, only a faint consciousness, finally growing to thoughts and finally able to twist Parkman's power so he would know he was there, that he was fighting.

Because he wanted that son of a bitch to know that he was coming.

And when he finally broke free of this prison cell, Matt Parkman and _anyone_ involved in making him like this were going to know hell like no other.

 

 


	6. Honestly Lying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x2 "Ink" — 4x6 "Once Upon A Time in Texas"

"How is he, Rene?" Claire murmured into her phone. Her voice was anxious, and she feared she might not be able to take any more surprises- she'd already kept herself awake into the small hours of the morning, worrying about Gretchen having seen her ability. She wasn't sure what to do on that situation yet, but she figured out pretty fast that, unless she got some reassurance, she wouldn't be sleeping at all that night.

" _He is sleeping. He went down a few hours ago._ "

"Has he been fussy? Is he adjusting?" Claire chewed on the inside of her lip, pulling her covers closer to her chest, the silence in the room unnerving her slightly.

" _He cried for you for a while, and even when he stopped, it was easy to see that he missed you. But he calmed down after a bit, enough for Annalise to feed him._ " The Haitian sighed. " _She's faring quite well, but she's tired. By the time you return, she may even be a bit relieved to have a full night's sleep once more."_

Claire laughed quietly, eyes stinging with the urge to cry. "Well, what can I say? He has the _epic tantrum_ gene on both sides."

" _So it would seem._ " The man had the grace to at least sound amused. " _And you? How is college?"_

"My roommate committed suicide," the girl sighed. "And I may have been discovered, already. The girl recognized my name from the Union Wells massacre story. We got to be friends, but now..."

" _I am sorry about your roommate. As for the girl—would you like me to erase her memory?"_

"No, no," she rushed. "I haven't decided what to do about it, yet. Maybe I can convince her it was nothing."

A long, tired breath crackled over the line. " _If you say so, then I will allow you the chance. But, should your father find out about her..._ "

"He won't." Claire leaned back against he pillows, closing her eyes. "Rene?"

" _Yes, Claire?"_

"I miss him."

The line was silent for a moment, and she knew that the Haitian knew exactly which _him_ she was talking about. The man murmured, " _You are better off without him, Claire. Forgive me for saying it, but you will be safer and happier, in the long run, this way._ "

Claire paused for a few long moments before she allowed his statement with a tired, "Perhaps."

" _Goodnight, Claire. Sleep._ "

"I'll try."

But she couldn't.

 

* * *

 

She wasn't sure how this had happened.

One moment, she was standing at her door, ready to yell at Gretchen, but found her father standing there instead. The next, they were out to lunch together, and the results were catastrophic. And the next, Gretchen was following her persistently, and Claire was giving in.

And then she had a roommate.

Claire wasn't sure why she had done it. Maybe it was because Gretchen knew about her ability, and she wanted to keep her close. Maybe it was because Gretchen was possibly the first real friend she'd had. Or it could be that the brunette girl reminded her of Sylar.

The more time she spent with Gretchen, the more she noticed it. And then she found it intriguing. Then intoxicating. And then it was irresistible.

And alarming, especially when the girl's obsessive tendencies came into play.

"Wow, that stuff that happened to you really messed you up!" The girl snarled defensively, when Claire confronted her about it. "You're a crazy kind of paranoid!"

_Paranoid?_ Claire's lip had curled at the accusation- but she was right. "Paranoid? No, no, no. Paranoid is... _This_ is a pattern! The Annie thing, the accident tonight, the computer! The speed dating—I mean, talk about me, much?" Almost as much as Sylar had talked about her. And it was freaking her out more and more by the day.

"I get nervous talking about myself," Gretchen said, voice wobbling. "You're just more interesting."

_You're special, Claire. Your brain is not like the others,_ you _are not like the others._

Claire snapped. "All I wanted was a normal life!" _In the beginning, when it was just me. And then I just wanted him and Noah. And then to be able to raise my son. And now I'm here at college, and my baby is in the arms of another woman. This is hardly normal._ "And I _trusted_ you!" _Like I trusted him- look where it got me, both times._

Gretchen's brown eyes had filled with tears, the girl looking at Claire with so much sadness and longing that it had made the blonde freeze. "I didn't kill Annie," she murmured. "And I'm not stalking you. Okay, maybe I'm a _little_ bit stalking you, but it's not what you think. It's just..."

Claire's eyebrows had raised in surprise, body frozen as the girl came closer, her height aiding her in looming over Claire, eyes intense, and she had tensed. God, she was just so similar, just so... _him._

And when the girl kissed Claire, she wasn't sure that the situation was okay anymore. Did she like Gretchen for Gretchen, or did she like Gretchen for Sylar? Was she really interested in the girl as a person, or was she just looking for any form of comfort she could find in this cold, lonely world?

And at what point did her sexuality come into play? Sure, Claire had learned to look beyond appearances, especially in her world, but did that courtesy extend to sexual preference as well? If she was honest with herself, Claire couldn't imagine reaching out to touch a small, soft body so identical to her own, in place of the strong, lean, sculpted body of a man.

But would any man be able to compare, after Claire had been spoiled so well? She couldn't see how she would be able to think of anyone else, aside from the exquisite specimen of human perfection that she'd claimed for her own.

Maybe a woman was what she needed, Claire thought as she lay in bed that night. But how could she be sure? When Gretchen was just so similar, would Claire _ever_ really know?

Either way, she wasn't ready to make any decisions—not with a son depending on her return. No, Claire had a life to protect, now, other from her own. A life that could be hurt. And, at no cost, would she allow that to happen.

She had to consider herself last in this arrangement.

Even if it meant that she would be lonely for a long time.

 

* * *

 

A body pulled itself from the dirt, gasping and coughing as he staggered along the dark roadway. Lights flashed in his eyes as a man pulled over in his car, shouting at him and forcing him in the back seat.

He was _terrified._

Sitting in the room made his mind go into overdrive. There were no windows, except for one that looked like a mirror but he knew held people on the other side. He was seated in an uncomfortable chair, his wrists pinched tight by handcuffs.

He was _confused._

He had no idea who he was, where he was or what had happened to him. All he could remember was a loud noise, then wandering, lost... thinking he might never be found. And a terrible, crushing emptiness inside of him, telling him that he was missing something, something important. Something more than memories.

And then a woman was entering, her face sympathetic and kind, patient. She was followed by a man, malicious and angry, that he could tell wished him harm.

The woman drew his attention when she folded her hands atop the table, catching his gaze. She was dark-skinned and beautiful, with a kind, exotic face and soft eyes. "Hi, my name is Dr. Gibson," she said. "I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?"

He couldn't.

The man commented on his silence, and he felt his breathing speed at the frustrated tone. The woman asked something quietly, and after that, it drifted out of focus. He was cold, scared, and everything felt so _strange_. Like he had never felt it before, even though he knew exactly what it was.

The woman asked what had happened to him, and he tried his best to tell her, really, really did—but the memory of those loud, violent noises made his body jerk in response, in pain he couldn't feel but knew should exist.

He wanted to leave. He wanted freedom. He wanted for something, _anything_ to feel right. But nothing did.

But then the woman, the doctor, offered him a chance to get out of those bloodstained clothes, to wash the dirt and grime from his body, and he started feeling something—gratitude, his mind supplied, but he'd never felt it before.

How had he never felt it before?

But when he was changed, he felt much better. The woman set a cup of something in front of him, steam rising. He peered inside curiously before he took a tiny, cautious sip. The taste spread through his mouth, lingering, and he blinked in surprise at the warmth of the liquid. "This is amazing. What is this?"

"It's tea." The woman was patient and pitying. He hated that, somehow, deep underneath. No one should look down on him. He was important... wasn't he? "You've never had tea before?"

He didn't know. Didn't think so. He didn't know anything. "I've never had anything," he answered, pausing between words, rolling them in his mouth in an attempt to understand how they fit together, how they worked. Even his voice, which was strange and unfamiliar. "It all feels so... it all feels so _new._ Like I'm feeling everything for the first time." He smiled a little, but he knew that it wasn't the right expression for the turmoil he was feeling inside. " _Hot_. And this... it's _cold_. It's like I... I know these things, these words, these _feelings_ , but they—they're... I can't put them together. They're not—they're not in my head. They're _there_ and then they're _not_. They're _gone_ and it's..."

He was overwhelmed.

"Scary," the woman supplied softly with a nod.

Yeah, that was the word. "It's very scary," he agreed. "But also... somehow... _beautiful._ All of it is overwhelmingly beautiful."

_Blonde curls, green eyes, tan skin, white smile. Petite in frame, words full of hate and eyes full of love. His, all his. Belly barely rounded, her body cradled in his arms. Her golden face glowing with a smile._

It was there, and then it wasn't. He struggled to hold on to the memory as it faded, but it left only an echo—a memory of a memory. He didn't know who she was, but he knew that short, brief moment had been the closest he had felt to _right._

Her face had already faded from his mind, but the smile the picture had brought hadn't.

" _Jamais vu_ ," the doctor said with a nod. "It's the opposite of deja vu. It's quite common in cases of seizures and dissociative amnesia. That's good news."

_Good?_ He frowned, looking at her incredulously. "How is that good news?"

"I think something traumatic happened to you and you've blocked it out," the woman said in excitement. "It means that the _you_ in you is still in there somewhere. I'd like to try a memory exercise."

He shrugged slightly; it couldn't hurt. It wasn't like he could remember anything, anyway.

 

* * *

_Gabriel Gray_.

That was his name, or so Captain Lubbock had said. Gabriel Gray. A watchmaker. A criminal. A _murderer._

The thought made him want to cry; he'd never hurt _anyone_. Never would. He knew it. He was a good person, he had to be.

But he was starting to doubt that more and more, as he made Madeline Gibson drive him further and further into the woods he had been taken from. As he panicked, a gun in his hand. As he dropped the pistol, and as five bullets slammed into him anyway, sending him and the doctor tumbling into the ditch.

But when he pulled up his shirt to inspect his wounds and saw the bullets rejected from his body, skin mending itself, he didn't feel bad.

He felt _elated._ Terrified, but amazed. Powerful.

And he ran when she told him to, that power fading into nothingness, but when he found himself in a clearing with a strange-looking man gesturing him into a carnival, eyes brimming with intrigue and acceptance, he felt fear once more. Did he really want to take the chance.

"What are you waiting for?" The man called.

He didn't know.

He looked behind him, seeing the figures of the police and their dogs approaching behind, and forward, to the flashing lights and music in all its glory. He took one step forward, and then another, steadily making his way to the man and glancing back. Once he was inside the gates, though, the men disappeared and all that was left behind him was a dirt road that he was sure wasn't there before.

"Don't worry, brother," the man said, voice tinged with an Irish lilt. "You're safe here."

He swallowed, seeing all the movement and light and color, overwhelmed by it all, but dazzled at the same time. "And where exactly is _here_?"

And the man smiled, taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh as he breathed, " _Home._ "

The promise in his voice made the man—Gabriel, or whoever he was—look around in wonder, seeing it in a new light. Every flash, every note held potential to be more. More than just a carnival in the woods, than his safe haven. "It's beautiful."

The man laughed, loud and rich, slapping him on the back and leading him forward. "I'm very glad you think so, brother. It could be your home, as well, if you wished it. But you must be exhausted- come, come. I'll show you a place where you can rest."

Gabriel swallowed and nodded, every motion blurring together into a mess of color and noise as we was led through dirt paths to a congregation of trailers. The man nudged him up the steps of one, small and made of mismatched metals, a sliding door the entrance to his refuge. The man took only a step or two inside, leaving Gabriel to turn in place, trying to take it all in.

"This will be your home as long as you would like to stay with us," the man said, smiling, face lit with excitement. "If you need anything, just ask. My name is Samuel, by the way—I suppose you could say that I'm like the father of this place. But anything, anything at all—what's ours is yours. Now, sleep. You can see more in the morning."

Gabriel nodded, a little confused and bewildered by Samuel's giddy acceptance, but grateful for it, all the while. "Thank you."

"Goodnight," Samuel said, and left.

Gabriel sighed, exhaustion sweeping over him as a wave, threatening to pull him under. But then he caught sight of himself in a mirror and stepped forward, head tilted slightly. He pulled off the blood soaked sweatshirt and undershirt, leaving his chest exposed to the air. His completely _uninjured_ chest.

He ran his hands over tan skin, searching for bullet holes that weren't there. It didn't make sense for him to be uninjured. He'd been shot five times; there was no way. It was impossible.

But all that was there were smudges of dried blood.

No holes. Not even a scratch.

Completely fine.

He laughed incredulously, his voice hoarse and disbelieving, and not for the first time did he wonder if he was dreaming. This entire night seemed surreal— _everything_ seemed surreal. Not just being shot and healing and ending up in a carnival. No, everything was new and strange and disconcerting.

But his vision was blurring, and he knew that there was no more time left for him to think about it. He wiped off the blood and stripped off his soiled clothes, pulling on something from one of the dressers, before he took a few steps toward the futon and crawled onto it, curling atop the sheets and closing his eyes.

He fell asleep almost instantly, but tossed and turned the whole night, plagued by nightmares and the crushing need to reach out to a body beside him.

A body that was not there.

 

* * *

 

He jolted awake.

It was morning, light streaming in through the door, where the man from the night before- _Samuel_ \- waited outside. He rubbed his eyes blearily and stood, bracing himself on the doorframe before he slid the glass open, eyes watering slightly from the bright morning sun.

"Morning, Sylar," Samuel greeted cheerfully. "How'd you sleep?"

He blinked, eyes narrowing in confusion as something like recognition pulsed through his mind. However, like the night before, it was there one moment and gone the next, pushed back and locked down by something else. Something stronger than he was.

"You called me Sylar," he said dumbly. "Who's Sylar?"

The man grinned, eyeing him with a look that could be described almost as predatory . "That's you. That's your name."

No, that didn't make sense. He frowned, eyes looking out at the great machines that had spun so wildly the night before, now still. "I don't know. The police told me my name was Gabriel." He sat heavily on one of the wooden stairs, missing the abashed look the old carnie gave him.

"You don't even know your name?" He mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. He stopped, considering, before he turned to Gabriel—or Sylar. "What happened to you?"

Gabriel-Sylar was silent for a long moment before a bitter laugh escaped him, and he rested his head back against the door a little harder than necessary. "I don't know. I can't remember."

The man leaned down, bracing himself on the railing, eyes focusing on him. He rattled off something about a great damage being done to him—which he couldn't deny, he _had_ been shot. But it was more than that, wasn't it? There had to be more, to leave everything like this, so blank, so new. And when Samuel said that maybe he'd come to heal, he couldn't help but look at the man.

Heal. Well, he had that covered already.

And then Samuel insisted that he stay with them, and that his memories would return if he did so. Gabriel-Sylar didn't believe him, not really, but at this point, what did he have to lose?

"What do we call you?" Samuel asked pensively. "Gabriel? Sylar?"

He twitched—tiny, faint sparks in his mind fought for his attention, beaten down before he could inspect them, overwhelmed by something else. Bigger, stronger, more prominent.

"Take a deep breath. What's the first name that pops into your head?" The Irish man asked, obviously having caught his little jolt.

So he thought about it. Hard. And when he thought of a name, he thought of signatures, a familiar, right-handed scrawl across documents with thick, formal paper. The harsh points of the first letter, rather than the soft sweep of a curve.

"Call me Nathan."

He pushed himself to his feet, taking a few steps from the stairs before the man caught up to him. "Where did that come from?" He demanded. "That name? It's not yours, you know."

"You told me to say what came to my mind first," he replied accusingly. "What did you want me to say? I told the truth."

Samuel shook his head harshly, letting out a low growl. "No, no. I thought—I don't know what I thought." He put his hands on the man's shoulders. "I want to abide by your wishes, but I'm fairly sure that if I do, your memories won't return. And, at this point, that's what we need." Hazel eyes narrowed slightly against brown. "So I'm going to call you what we knew you by. Sylar. Your name. Your _title_. And if nothing starts coming back in a few days, then I'll do as you like. Sound fair?"

Sylar huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "If you say so."

The day dragged on, Samuel showing him around, showing him the true nature of the carnival. Of the people.

Of himself.

He was... special, the man said. Different. He held powers that most others couldn't even dream of.

It was... intriguing. Enticing. Liberating.

Powers.

But, more than the powers was one of the people that Samuel introduced him to. She was tall and blonde, her face pretty and slightly sun-weathered, hair sandy-blonde, eyes brown and lips red, hands soft when she shook his. It had brought back a memory, strong and potent, but nothing stronger than the urge to be near this woman.

There was something missing from him, something that he needed terribly. And he had the feeling that she knew what it was. And he needed to know.

Because when her hands touched him, a strange pull started, bringing him toward her. More than anything, more than regaining his memories, he _needed_ to understand why.

 

* * *

 

It was always the same dream.

In it, there was a girl. She was petite and tan, her hair falling in golden curls to her waist, eyes a dark, shining green. He would reach out, running his fingers back and forth over her leg, covered in a faded denim, her face showing nervousness, but also a bit of intrigue. She was young, beautiful, and would eventually bend to him, and they would fall together in something that wasn't love, but wasn't lust, either. Companionship, maybe. He would leave her the next morning with a ring on her finger and a chain on his neck.

He would find her again later, on a beach lit by moonlight. She was crying, and before he could react, she had a gun pointed at him. Then she left it, throwing herself into his arms. She would tell him something later that would shake them both, but within seconds, he was determined to keep. He left her again with a promise.

The last time, she would find him. She was testing him, and eventually able to outwit him. She tricked him into showing himself, but only because he was distracted by her, by her presence. He was careful, restrained, because they were being watched, and she tested his patience with every word, every necessary lie. He lost his cool, and he held her close, hands on her stomach and whispering words, heart beating rapidly in his chest. She kissed him, both happy and terrified, and shared a prophecy with him, one that he was too foolish to take heed of. He thought he was strong enough to overcome it. So he ignored her warnings, despite a confession that struck him to the soul, and took on a fight that he thought he could win.

But he lost.

The last time, he would leave her with a secret, along with one of his own, words he never got to say. And then he would fade, would fall, and become nothing.

That's when he would wake up.

The dream always was gone by then, despite his desperate attempts to cling to it, to the belonging and the love that he felt when he was inside it. But it was crushed, smothered by the memories that Samuel claimed were not his.

He sought out Lydia for that reason, because she was the closest he could come to that feeling. But whenever she tried to tempt him into something more than a touch or an embrace, he couldn't help but turn her away. She would return to her trailer and the knife-wielding British man at the end of the night, confused and a little frustrated, and he would return to his, lonely and wondering why a woman who was so blatantly interested in him wasn't enough.

Why wasn't she enough?

Why wasn't the beautiful, kind, interesting woman enough to get through to him? Both he and Samuel wondered the same. She was _there,_ a part of the family he had been brought in to, a part of the family that he was _happy_ with. But Sylar couldn't let her close.

So he would return to his trailer and have the same dream again, over and over. And over and over it would fade, leaving him missing something that he craved on such a basic level that it was an _instinct_. He was missing it, and it was destroying him.

But god, what the _hell_ was it?

 

* * *

_Sometimes you have to remember who you were to figure out who you want to be._

_Why do I suddenly feel like you're the parent and I'm the kid?_

_We'll take turns._

She couldn't help thinking about it. Had she really changed so much that even her usually-absent father could notice it?

Should she be proud of that, or worried that she was getting too obvious?

Across the room, Gretchen shifted—the third time in as many minutes. She wasn't sleeping, and neither was Claire. Things had been awkward between them over the past few days. Mainly, they had kept out of each other's way—but it couldn't last forever.

Claire could not avoid his memory forever, either. She needed to take ownership of it, in some way. Maybe trying again with Gretchen and all her similarities could be her chance.

But no one could know her secrets. No one.

There was a fine line, here, one that was stretched so thin that she was afraid it would snap when she tried to balance on it. But she had to take a chance, or nothing would ever change. At some point, she had to get rid of that safety net.

And Gretchen was the best friend she'd ever had.

"You awake?" Claire whispered.

"Yeah. You?"

Claire rolled her eyes- of course she was awake. "Yep."

"Are you afraid I'm gonna kiss-attack you in your sleep?" Gretchen asked softly.

Claire laughed softly, but at the same time, a nervous flutter started in her stomach. "...maybe." She rolled onto her other side, facing her roommate in the dark. "We should talk about this."

Gretchen turned to face her as well, a long pause stretching between them, followed by the girl's heavy sigh. "Yeah, I guess we should."

They sat up, an awkward silence lingering, waiting for speech from either one of them to break it. Gretchen started, her patience much shorter and anxiety much greater than Claire's. "It was stupid and impulsive and bad—"

"It wasn't bad," Claire said, startled by her own proclamation. "I mean, you're a good kisser, I just..." Her eyes were wide and confused on Gretchen's incredulous face. But it was true- she _was_ a good kisser. Claire was just a really, really fucked up person. And she knew it. "I don't want to mess this up." _I don't want to let my obsessiveness turn you into him. You're the only true friend I've had._

"Mess what up?" Gretchen murmured.

"My new, totally ordinary life," Claire replied, a bit sarcastically. _Ordinary, right. I had a secret relationship that gave me a secret child, while I'm off skipping around in college and lying to everyone's face. Ordinary. Yeah, right._ "You know, the one I'm still chasing." She swallowed. "Gretch, you're the first real friend I've had since I left Texas, and... that's a big deal for me." _A really, really big deal._ "And I really like you a lot."

The brunette smiled a little, obviously sad, even in the cover of the dark. "Just not in that way."

Claire pursed her lips—how could she even start to respond to that?

But just as she was about to try, the door was flung open. Figures in black burst in, and for a second, Claire thought she was hallucinating again. At least until one of them tried to grab her.

She swung her bookbag at one, leaping up and throwing another to the ground, a fierce snarl curling her lips and exposing her teeth at her attackers, crouching and growling a warning. She was about to put her fist in the person's face when the lights switched on, and a familiar girl stood in the doorway, wide-eyed.

Becky. "Jeez, Claire!"

Claire realized in horror that these attackers weren't nearly as dangerous as she thought they were—just girls from the sorority that she and Gretchen had been accepted to. She leaned down, helping the girl she'd thrown down to her feet, sputtering in surprise as she identified her _sister_.

"You don't have to go all Buffy on us! We're just kidnapping you," Becky added.

"I am _so_ sorry," Claire breathed, mouth dropping open in horror.

"Do you want to be an Alpha Chi or not?"

Claire stared at her, open-mouthed.

"Is that a trick question?" The question came not from her, but from Gretchen, who looked shell-shocked that this was even happening. Claire couldn't help but agree.

"Where are you taking us?" She asked breathlessly, still trying to regain her composure from almost beating a harmless co-ed into the ground.

"Well... if I told you, that wouldn't be a very good kidnapping, would it?" Becky asked, stepping forward with a smirk that was far too sinister for Claire's liking.

But then a bag was placed over her head, and Claire's vision went dark.

 

* * *

 

They weren't kidding when they called it a Screamin' Scavenger Hunt, Claire discovered.

Between the location and the blood and the attempts on Gretchen's life, things were spiraling more and more out of hand. Not to mention getting shoved on a spike- that was something the blonde could have done without. But she couldn't help but be thankful that she was no longer pregnant. She didn't even want to think about what that might have done to Noah, had he still been inside of her.

But some things had been too monumental to ignore.

_So, you were saying how you didn't really like me in that way._

_No, you were saying that. I was saying that you've been a great friend._

_So, which way is it?_

_I don't know._

_What does that mean?_

_It means, I don't know._

_...Awesome._

Awesome. Yeah, that just about summed it up.

Because that way Gretchen had looked at her, brown eyes intense and burning on her face, lingering on her lips, had made Claire's stomach clench. And the way her breath fanned across tanned skin, the way their bodies were pressed together and the way Gretchen seemed to hold herself back very carefully, it all sent shivers up Claire's spine.

And all of it was _all_ Sylar.

Every time she looked at Gretchen, that was all she could see. What could have been, in another world. If Claire had just been a cheerleader and Sylar had just been Gabriel, a man. The meeting, the flirting, the nervous anticipation as they tested the waters, both craving to see how far it might go. The first kiss, crazy with joy and the urge to try it again. And again. And again.

With Gretchen, Claire could have the chance that she never could with Sylar. The chance to have a normal life... to introduce her to her friends, to bring her to family gatherings, to hang out with her in public. Sure, the gender thing might get Claire a few strange looks, but what was that compared to guns and powers and her father's blind hatred? Nothing. Nothing at all.

But how much of it was really about Gretchen? Claire couldn't help but wonder. It was true, that Gretchen _had_ been a good friend—the best, really. She had been there when Claire needed her, was supportive and indulged her crazy whims, and they _did_ have chemistry. But would it be enough? Would it be enough, knowing that Gretchen, no matter how special, was temporary? That, above all, she was normal, and could never really fit into the life Claire had built?

That Gretchen might never be able to understand the complex series of disasters and miracles that had brought Noah into her life?

Claire didn't know, she realized as she crawled into her bed, tired and exhausted from finally getting back from that hell of a sorority set up.

But she needed to find out.

 

* * *

 

Torturing Matt Parkman was really, really fun.

Sylar, the _real_ Sylar, fought the urge to smile. God, he loved screwing with that man's mind. It was all the retribution he could get, at the moment, for the man screwing with _his._

But, as Matt Parkman attempted to drink himself into a stupor, thinking he could get rid of him, Sylar reflected on one thing. One very important lesson that he had failed to learn until this moment.

No one could replace Claire.

Using Janice to get to Parkman had been his goal- yeah, that was true. Using her body to figure out his own issues was an afterthought. And, technically, he hadn't really cheated. It _was_ Parkman who was doing the job, after all.

But, after all that, he hadn't been satisfied, not in the least. He hadn't felt calmed, quieted, like he had after Claire. He hadn't felt that twinge in his chest, and there was none of that strange and out-of-place tenderness that had overcome him after being with her. In no way had he felt compelled to stay, and watching the woman come down from her high had not brought him any sense of pride.

He just felt... empty.

And, maybe, now, it was because he could admit to himself that he cared about the former cheerleader much more than he should. It could have been that. It could have been the history they shared that made Claire so appealing. It could have even been the damn hormones from the young woman whose stomach had been rounded with his child.

Just thinking of Claire like that brought him ten times more feeling than being with _that_ woman.

No one would ever live up to Claire.

All the more reason to get his body back.

So he could get _her_ back.

"Oh, man. You're afraid of dying," Parkman muttered, words slurring.

Sylar lay his head back, closing his eyes and willing himself to fade into the recesses of Parkman's mind. _Not of dying, not exactly,_ he thought. _Of dying alone... maybe._

_Afraid of never making it back... to her._

* * *

 

It all started a few years ago, on the day of the Homecoming in Odessa, Texas.

He'd planned to kill a waitress. She had an incredible memory, photographic without fail, a useful power. Not nearly as important as the one he was after- this was just a stop along the way. But still necessary, in his journey to become powerful.

Because, Sylar thought back then, that when you were powerful, nothing else mattered.

But it did.

Because when he tried to kill the waitress, he found himself faced by a runt of a Japanese man who claimed to be the master of time and space. His voice was thick with an accent, but he spoke English fairly well- enough for Sylar to understand him clearly.

That if he _saved_ the waitress, in place of killing her, that he would be told everything the man knew about the future.

An advantage he _craved._ That little reservoir of information was tantalizing, a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he _wanted_ it. So he agrees to save the waitress, Charlie, for the man.

He'd never thought about love much before that day.

He had a fleeting thought here and there, especially back when he was still a good man, still under Elle's influence. But after that, everything had revolved around power and influence. Love was just a butterfly that he'd crushed somewhere along the line, and it was a price he was willing to pay.

But watching the Japanese man take the girl's face in his hands, speaking softly to her as Sylar worked to extract the aneurism, his overactive mind started to work, to understand. No, love wasn't necessary, but once you had it, it seemed that it became important. Maybe even _more_ important than what was necessary. Because this man had come back from the future, just to save her, even though that it was clear his life didn't depend on it in any way. He just _wanted_ her in his life.

And as he watched the woman dissolve into tears, her excruciating pain forgotten in the face of comfort from the man she loved, he started to think. And wonder if anyone would ever understand him like that, and if he could understand them, even without his ability. To know someone for the sake of knowing them. Wanting them, not for any tactical advantage, but rather as a part of his life, and him as part of theirs.

And then the Japanese man, ironically, dropped the bomb on _him._

"You die alone. I'm sorry."

He bristled at that, wondering if he had been cheated, if he didn't really know anything and had used him—but it didn't look like the man was lying. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He snapped.

"It means that you will collect a lot of powers," the man replied softly, standing protectively in front of his woman. "You will kill many people. You will become strong, the strongest of them all."

Okay, now _that_ he liked. He could live with that.

"But in the end, it won't make any difference."

And _that_ , not so much.

The Japanese man looked to the girl, who was staring at him in horror and understanding, before he looked back to Sylar. He swallowed and slumped slightly in defeat.

"We all gather to stop you. You alone. No one will mourn your death. No one will shed a tear. No one." Slanted eyes were pitying, and Sylar realized what his expression must have looked like to garner such a reaction from a pathetic little man such as him.

"I wish I can change fate, but you must go on your path."

And, just like that, he was standing back in the alleyway he had been in over an hour before. He bent to pick up his hat as he watched the Japanese man drive away on a motor scooter, strong fingers tracing the familiar black brim.

Maybe... maybe he didn't have to do this.

Maybe he still had a chance for redemption.

But as his ears picked up on the chant of a group of girls, the Hunger set in again, driving his steps, his every thought.

His hands were already stained, and Sylar had never really believed in fate, anyway.

So why stop now?

He had a cheerleader to hunt.

A cheerleader, as fate itself would have it, that would change _everything_.

 

 


	7. Lying By Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x8 "Shadowboxing"

Sylar was breaking out of this prison cell. No matter what it took.

That was his singular thought as he guided Parkman's body through the airport security, the man in tow, an unwilling passenger as he watched his life go by without him. Maybe now he would understand just how it felt to be helpless.

It sucked.

"Where the hell are we going, anyway?" Parkman demanded.

Well, he didn't see the harm in answering that. He thought the answer was fairly obvious, anyway. "New York."

"New York? What for?"

_What do you_ think _is in New York?_   Sylar wanted to snap. The man was just so _stupid_ sometimes. "The last thing I remember is Peter Petrelli stabbing me in the neck with a syringe. I figure the Italian Eagle Scout should know what happened next." His eyes narrowed, refusing to look over his shoulder at the man who, in actuality, wasn't even there. "Unless, of course, you wanna save us the trouble and just _tell_ me what happened to my body." _And what happened to Claire._

"It's not gonna happen."

Sylar chuckled. "Suit yourself."

Weaving through the crowd of bodies, he tossed the sturdy canvas duffel onto the security belt, being waved through by guards and feeling pretty smug about the whole situation. "I don't get to fly very often, you know? Especially not first class," he taunted under his breath.

"Well, I'm glad my life savings could broaden your horizons," Matt huffed.

Sylar's lack of attention on the man was probably a bad idea, he recognized in hindsight, because if he had been watching, he would have seen the smirk that crossed the man's face right before the metal detector went off and he was swarmed by security personnel.

"What the hell is going on?" He asked in surprise.

"Don't move! We found a gun in your bag," the security chief snarled.

"Whoo!" Parkman cheered. "They found a gun in your bag."

"What is he talking about?" Sylar hissed.

"Who are you talking to?" The guard shouted. Sylar grimaced as he was thrown to the ground with much more force than he was used to- the downside to inhabiting a body that was not his usual size.

"The socks that you thought you were packing this morning?" Parkman asked with a grin. "Nu-uh. My service revolver."

Forcing back a slew of curses as he was forced to his feet, hands bound in cuffs, Sylar tried, " _There is no gun in that bag. You did not find a gun in that bag."_

But the guard merely sneered at him, "Yes, we did."

"You may be able to control my body, but I will never, _ever_ let you control my ability. _Do you hear me?_ " The fierce baring of teeth was a strange look on the larger man, one that was wholly uncharacteristic and made Sylar pause. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

He had underestimated Matt Parkman.

It seemed that he took his family's safety just as seriously as Sylar took _his_.

He would not make the same mistake again.

 

* * *

 

Across the country, a body slept, turning under the force of his dreams. As the face shifted from one man's into another's, his experiences, those memories he had gained, were lost underneath the force of the other—Nathan Petrelli.

Wide brown eyes took in his surroundings, and pulling on unfamiliar clothes, he left the unfamiliar place in a panic.

And that started the beginning of the end for Nathan Petrelli.

 

* * *

 

"This is a lost cause!" Gretchen exclaimed.

"No," Claire replied with a frown, looking over the girl's shoulder as she adjusted her pants. "No. there's got to be something."

"There's nothing. Nothing about Becky Taylor or why she wants me dead," the brunette said shakily.

Claire looked around, green eyes focusing on the open window. "Or why she killed Annie."

"Right," Gretchen agreed as Claire turned, moving back toward her bed. "Let's not forget that she already succeeded in killing _one_ of your roommates!" The girl collapsed heavily on her bed. "Awesome."

Claire buttoned the fly of her pants, an idea striking her as she turned, trying to squish the annoyance that was bubbling up inside of her. "I should go to the sorority house. I can go into her room, go through her stuff. I'll find answers there."

"What if you find _Becky_ instead?" Gretchen asked, eyes wide and fearful. There was something about that expression that was rubbing Claire the wrong way. It was just so... weak. "Or what if she's here now? Wanting to kill me... invisibly."

_God, you're pathetic,_ Claire thought before she could help herself, biting her lip. She never thought that Gretchen would be such a coward, not when she had seemed so fearless on the scavenger hunt. But _no_ , one invisible girl, and the girl was having a panic attack. "Uh..."

_Why the hell can't you be more like him?_

Claire's eyes landed on a container of baby powder, feeling stupid even as she reached for it. With Sylar, one invisible girl would have been little more than a small annoyance, not even worthy of being called a threat. An ant, just waiting to be squashed.

_This is Gretchen,_ Claire reminded herself. _Not Sylar. She's not the same._

And then, _God, how could she ever live a life like mine when she's scared of her own shadow?_

"There are ways to make her visible," Claire said, giving a hesitant, forced smile. "Huh?"

False cheeriness had never been her thing.

She shook some of the powder into the air, ignoring Gretchen's horrified look. But, really, she was giving herself one of her own on the inside.

_What kind of person would be able to stand next to me without fear? A girl that can't be hurt, a girl that will live forever?_

"See? Nothing."

Gretchen stared at her, wide-eyed, giving her a tiny nod. "Maybe... I should go with you."

Claire grimaced—that was the last thing she needed. A distraction on a recon mission. Right, because Gretchen would be of so much use. "No," she answered. "No, just stay here. It'll be safer. And don't let anyone in the room until I get back, okay?"

She held out the baby powder, watching as Gretchen took it gingerly. "Okay."

"You'll be fine." She hated reassuring people. She turned with an anxious look, hoping that Gretchen wouldn't get herself in trouble. "Lock the door."

Gretchen nodded, mouth open, terrified.

"Good," Claire whispered, throwing her a thumbs-up as she closed the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

The sorority house was only a short walk away, and was relieved to see her fellow kidnap-ees as she walked in, arguing about costumes and their sluttiness.

"Hey," Claire said, eyes scanning the room. "Have you guys seen Becky since she kidnapped us?"

A look of blank incredulity was the only answer she received. "Since she _what?_ "

"Since she kidnapped us," Claire repeated with a frown. "For the scavenger hunt?"

"Oh, there's gonna be a scavenger hunt?" The dark-skinned girl asked with a wide grin.

Claire froze, a surprised smile twisting her face. "You guys don't remember anything."

_Rene._

The girls gave a pair of startled laughs, slipping off into the group of girls, mumbling under their breath. Claire's eyes swept the room again, settling on a dark-skinned man that stood on the staircase above her. Their eyes met and Claire swallowed, nervousness starting in her stomach. _Rene is here. That means—_

She turned. "That was fast."

Bennet shrugged, smiling faintly. "My daughter calls, I drop everything," he replied easily.

"I've missed you," Claire answered with a smile, stepping into him for a hug, taking comfort in her father's familiar scent and the feel of strong hands on her back.

"Me too, Claire-bear," he sighed. "So, you've had some trouble with the house leader?"

"Becky," she reminded him. "Yeah." Her voice lowered. "She's one of us. Invisibility."

Bennet nodded. "Can you take me to her?"

Claire laughed awkwardly. "Well, uh, finding her has been a little bit of a problem, as you can imagine."

Noah gave an understanding nod, looking up and meeting the gaze of his partner. "Hopefully not anymore. Can you take me to her room, at least?"

"Sure," the blonde replied, leading him to the foot of the staircase and up. "Okay, let's go over the rules."

Bennet huffed. "I'm pretty clear from our phone conversation what the rules are."

"Well, recap for me," she insisted, glancing at the Haitian as she passed by him, feeling his eyes on her back, a familiar, if slightly intimidating feeling.

"We make all the bad stuff go away, like this Becky. You get to keep all the good stuff, like your new friend Gretchen. Am I right?"

"Close enough," Claire sighed.

"I will do my best, Claire, but life isn't always that simple." He looked at his daughter, and, seeing her frown, decided to change the subject. "I'm gonna get inside the room and see what I can find."

"It's that one on the end." She pointed to the end of the hallway.

"Okay. Alright, Claire, why don't you go on back to the dorm, back to your friend?"

"I'm coming with you, Claire," the Haitian said,t he first time she had heard him speak, and jumped slightly in surprise.

"What?" Looking at him and back to her father, her eyes widened. "No, no, no, _no._ We _just_ went over the rules! Don't you remember what the rules are?" She turned to the dark-skinned man with a furious scowl. "You are _not_ supposed to wipe Gretchen's memory!"

The Haitian looked vaguely amused by her reaction, and Claire turned back to her father when she heard, "She must be a really good friend."

She gave him a furious, frustrated look. "Dad, just _please—_ "

"He's not going to erase Gretchen's memory," her father whispered, frowning at his daughter. "He's going with you so that if Becky comes near, she won't be able to stay invisible. Okay?"

Claire raised her eyebrows in surprise, the amused glance from her father making her feel small and stupid. "Oh..." Frowning, she sighed, "That's actually a _really_ good plan."

"This is _not_ my first rodeo," Bennet replied with a huff, almost insulted that Claire would be surprised that he _had_ a plan. He _always_ had a plan.

She smiled a little. "Thanks, Dad," she murmured.

"We'll regroup soon," he answered with a nod, opening the door to Becky's room and slipping inside.

Claire leaned forward, watching carefully as the man closed the door behind him, holding her breath until the door finally latched and rolling her eyes, letting out a relieved breath. She turned to the man who waited for her, sighing, "Come on, Rene."

She settled into a comfortable pace as he got to her side, his lips twitching upwards faintly. Their strides matched as they slowed, prolonging their time together as they exited the sorority house and started the long walk back to the dorms.

"It's been a while, Claire," Rene said with a slight smile. "I was beginning to wonder when you would call again."

"Whenever I can, Rene, you know that," the blonde sighed. "It's not as easy as it used to be. Between all this sorority junk and having a new roommate whose information is limited... it's difficult." She pushed her bangs back away from her face, slowing as she looked at him. "How's he doing? Is Annalise having a hard time with you gone?"

Dark eyes softened a little, and the man flashed her a rare smile. "Your son is healthy and growing well. He looks more and more like you every day."

"And him?" Claire asked with a wry expression.

The man's smile fell. "Yes, and him. Claire..." he took in a deep breath and released it slowly.

"What?" Claire's pace slowed, and a concerned expression took over. "What's wrong? Is everything okay?"

Something like resolve flashed across the man's face, and he replied, "All is fine. I only wish that humans were more reasonable creatures."

The blonde frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

A soft huff escaped him, and Rene tucked his hands into his pockets, eyeing the students milling about the campus. "You will understand in time." His pace returned to normal, and Claire jogged a little to catch up. "I have something, should you wish to see it. I received a picture from Annalise this morning—I have it saved on my phone."

The green-eyed girl made a soft sound in surprise, and when the Haitian's eyes were drawn to her, he could see longing written plainly on her face. He felt a slight, unfamiliar pang in his chest when she whispered, "Can I?"

He nodded, extracting his cellular from his pocket, tapping the screen a few times before he handed it to her, stopping once he realized that she was no longer following him.

Claire's hands clenched when her eyes locked on the photograph of the child- _her_ child. He was so big, so different that she hardly recognized him. But, at the same time, there was no doubt in her mind that he was hers. He was just too similar, too blonde, too tan, his curious brown eyes too much like his father's to be anyone else's child. The boy was dressed in a green onesie, laying on his stomach, but his head raised from the ground, eyes locked on the camera. It almost looked like he was looking right at her—the thought that Claire was _here_ , was missing all of that, nearly broke her heart.

"He's so big," she breathed, eyes burning. She handed back the phone abruptly, swiping at her eyes and tugging at her shirt before she looked back to Rene.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have—" he started.

"No," she replied firmly. "No. You should have. Thank you."

He nodded, expression falling back to neutral. Though he knew that Claire was a strong girl, he couldn't help but feel the instinct to protect her from the pain she was feeling. Unfortunately, he couldn't—Claire had done what was needed to keep herself and her son safe. He could only be proud of her foresight and her sacrifice and the bravery it had taken for her to give up her son.

But he cursed Sylar all the same.

Because, without that godforsaken man, maybe the strong, hardened woman before him could have just been a girl, still living in Texas with her friends, having a normal life. A life without murder and betrayal and deaths that she didn't even know about. A life without sins so dark and terrible that it would break her heart if she knew.

Something had to be done, he realized. He couldn't let things go on the way they had. He couldn't pretend anymore that Nathan was Nathan, or that Angela was as dependable as he had once believed. She had finally slipped, and now her heirs, her _true_ heirs, were paying for it.

For Claire and Peter, he had to do something.

And for Noah.

 

* * *

 

Claire rushed into her room with a new resolve, only to be stopped dead when she saw what was happening. A bag being stuffed with clothes, and a distraught brunette girl shoving her things in wherever they would fit.

"You're packing," Claire said dumbly. "Why are you packing?"

"Because, I'm going home. Maybe forever!"

_No._ Green eyes widened, and Claire felt panic set in. No, she couldn't lost _another_ person, especially not one that made her feel so reminiscent of what she'd had all those months ago. Gretchen was her only friend, her only... _whatever._

Claire couldn't lose that. Not when she'd already lost everything.

So she argued. She tried telling Gretchen that she couldn't, that she had called her father and that things were going to be under control. However, that didn't stop the wounded, terrified looks that Gretchen kept skewering her with, looks that were so unlike Sylar that Claire was finally, finally starting to realize...

Gretchen wasn't Sylar. And she had been a fool to treat her like she had been. Because no one could handle that, no matter how strong they were, because they would never be strong enough. They would never be as strong as he had been.

So why did it still hurt to see Gretchen turning away?

"You're too important," Claire said softly, trying to get her point across. She didn't know how to say what she was feeling, because she didn't know _what_ she was feeling. All she knew was that she wanted Gretchen to stay, and that she would do whatever it took to make that happen. Because, if Gretchen left, she might really be alone. "To me. I just don't want to lose you."

She heard the gentle steps tat signaled Rene's entrance, and that reassurance was starting to make her feel better, like she might actually be able to change Gretchen's mind.

But Gretchen had already booked her flight, and, on top of that, she was scared.

"Wait, wait, wait—you don't understand!" Claire exclaimed desperately. "Okay? This is Rene, and he can keep Becky from being able to turn invisible!" She gestured back at the man who sent her a pitiful glance, one that Claire was too scared and frustrated to take heed of. She knew how crazy she sounded, but she couldn't handle another loss. It was just too much.

She wouldn't be able to handle it.

"Gretchen, everything's gonna be fine, okay? My dad and I have done this a thousand times!" Claire practically begged, on the verge of tears for the second time that day.

"Exactly!" Gretchen snapped in return, and Claire could see that the other was close to tears as well. "This is everyday life for you! But it's not for me." She took a step back, shaking her head slightly and sniffling. "I'm just not like you."

And she turned on her heel and left, Rene watching as she went before his eyes moved to Claire.

She was breaking, falling apart. She wasn't sure what she was going to do, not now. Dying, drowning in her loneliness, she had lost another person, another friend, someone who was her last connection to everything that had ever made Claire smile.

And from the look in nearly-black eyes, Claire knew that they _both_ knew it.

She hated falling to pieces, and if she could help it, she wasn't going to do it in front of the man that was currently raising her child.

"Stay with her, please," Claire whispered, her voice cracking. "'Til she gets on the plane."

He hesitated, but after a moment, Rene nodded. He didn't want to say anything more, knowing that Claire didn't want to hear it, and he would do whatever she asked of him. That was why he was really here, after all.

Once he was gone, Claire's hands came up to cover her face, shoulders shaking. _First Sylar, now Gretchen—I'm losing everyone! If I stay here much longer, I won't have anyone left._

A knock on the door startled Claire out of her self-pity, and she wiped her eyes before she turned to the man standing in her doorway. He was tall, thin and middle-aged; maybe mid-forties, but with a kind face that spoke of sympathy and understanding.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"Possibly," he replied. "Hopefully."

Claire was confused, at least until he started going on about Becky- really, she didn't want to deal with anyone right now, least of all someone who was a friend of Becky's, considering that it was the sorority head that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. She tried to shoo him away, but the man—Samuel—wasn't having it.

"I know you're special, Claire. Like her, like me. And I know you're asking yourself right about now, _who is this guy? What could he possibly know about me?_ "

She was startled—was she being that obvious, or was he just that observatory? Or was that possibly a part of his power? Either way, he did seem earnest, and she had to admit that his presence was distracting her beautifully from her self-pity. "Yeah, something like that."

"I also know that it's very hard to trust anyone in this world, being one of us," Samuel said softly.

But this was too much of a coincidence for Claire to be very welcoming. "So, why should I trust you?" Claire nearly growled.

"You shouldn't," the man said with a faint smile and a shake of his head. "Not until you hear me out." He shifted, looking into the hallway before he looked back at Claire. "If you have a moment to listen, I might have some answers for you."

She was already hopeless, alone, looking for a place that she could fit in- a real home, like what she had when she was in New York, with her baby. Like she had when she was curled against Sylar that very first—and only—time. Like she had on the beach that night, and curled in his arms on the couch in the Stanton. And now, he was gone, she was confused, and really, what harm could it do by listening to what this man had to say?

What did she have to lose?

_Nothing._

* * *

 

It had been one thing after another.

First the airport, then the busted tire—Sylar was getting sick of Parkman's little games. He only killed that repairman to make a point. He usually didn't kill without a solid reason, like attaining powers or getting rid of those who were in his way. Not usually people who he had no interest in. Not people who had no idea of the world they even lived in.

But he had made his point. That was all that mattered.

And now, here he was, sitting in a diner in Midland, Texas—a place he hadn't been since this whole thing had started. And now, here he was again, his memory plagued by the memory of a Japanese man and the redheaded woman he loved, sitting across from Matt Parkman and his watchful eyes, trying to hide his silent longing for that love, that companionship that he was sorely missing.

After he had sufficiently charmed the waitress and pissed off Parkman, Sylar pulled the pocketknife from his jacket, idly playing with the blade. "Aw, she's so sweet. Isn't Lynette so sweet?" he muttered under his breath, leaning forward, shooting a tiny smirk at Parkman. "Funny story—I tried to kill a waitress here, once."

The threat hung heavy between the two until the cop replied softly—though Sylar didn't see why, no one could hear him, anyway. "You can't kill her."

He snorted, eyes narrowing as he sneered, "I'm sorry. Did you miss the whole _the world is my hostage_ bit, earlier?"

"No, I got it, I got it," Parkman said in a rush. "I've done nothing. And I've kept quiet."

_Like it would matter, no one could hear you,_ Sylar thought. "And _now_ , I want you to talk." His hands twitched as he flicked the blade out and back. "Hostages are used to get things that you want. And I want to know _everything._ " His lips curled into a snarl. "Exactly how I ended up in your head and where the hell my body is." _And what happened to my family._

Parkman frowned, looking like he was considering something heavily, nodding to himself before he fixed Sylar with a firm look. "No."

Brown eyes clashed, Sylar's gaze almost incredulous. After everything that had happened, after the line he had just reinforced, and Parkman _really_ wanted to deny him?

After a long moment of staring between the two, it seemed that _yes,_ that's exactly what Parkman wanted to do.

_So be it._

He eyed Lynette as she slipped into the back room where he had done his little half-assed neurosurgery. "It's nice and isolated back there," he whispered, flicking the blade closed right in front of Parkman's face. "No one would ever hear her scream."

Parkman's face went helpless, as if he hadn't quite realized what the consequences for denying him might be. "Come on," he pleaded.

Sylar stood, knife in hand, smile on his face as he walked toward the back, intent on killing yet _another_ person to prove his point—maybe the morally-clear cop wasn't quite as heroic as he had thought. But, what did it matter? No one would ever know that he killed her. This _was_ Parkman's boy, after all.

"Stop! Please! Come on, stop it!" Parkman headed him off before he could reach the door.

He smiled slightly— _piece of cake._ "Okay, fine. Just tell me what I want to know." When Matt was silent, he prodded, "Your choice. Her life is in _your_ hands."

And when Parkman said nothing, and the woman showed up, he was intent on killing her. At least until the cop stepped in his way and finally, finally gave in, and Sylar tasted sweet success.

He would have his answers soon.

 

* * *

 

Her eyes were intent on the man in her room, Claire standing in the doorway, ready to run if need be. At least she knew his power—he could move the earth.

And then he started in on family, and how Rebecca had come to them when she was young. She wasn't really his niece, just his ward, Claire supposed—but what he said next stopped her short.

"A family is more than blood," Samuel said softly. "It's about trust. About love. About those who embrace you, the real you. Unconditionally."

Claire swallowed. Because, when he said it like that, it shrunk her own _family_ down quite a bit. Because most of them only cared about her when she did what _they_ wanted her to do. Angela, Nathan, even Peter... and her father. Who _really_ cared about her, unconditionally?

Well, Sylar, for one, but he was gone. Noah, but he was too young to have a choice. And Rene, who had never betrayed her.

But how could she admit that?

"Becky pushed my roommate out a window," Claire sneered. "Do you _embrace_ that?"

"No, of course not," Samuel replied. "But Rebecca is... complicated. Her father was murdered when she was just five years old."

It was too reminiscent of her own son for Claire to be comfortable, so she jumped on the defensive. "Okay, but how is that _my_ fault?"

"It's not," he said. "You're not the one she's after."

Claire's eyes widened.

"I'm truly sorry for what happened to your roommate," Samuel added. "Both of them. But it was good of you to send the other one away."

The blonde winced. "I didn't send her away. She left."

Samuel grimaced in return. "Well... it's a slanted perspective to see the extraordinary through ordinary eyes. Fear is easier than understanding."

She fought the urge to nod—he knew. He had to know. And maybe Claire didn't really know Samuel, but she knew how he thought, because he knew what it was like. And that, for some reason, was more important than the fact that he was a strange man in her dorm room, a _relative_ of the person who had sent Gretchen away.

Because, Claire was starting to realize, that even though it hurt, maybe it was _better_ that Gretchen was gone.

"So, how do you deal with it?"

Samuel, who had turned away, looked back to her with a shrug and a quiet laugh. "By _not_ having to deal with it. I simply surrounded myself with people who, by definition, are like me." He smiled a little with hopeful eyes. "It's a whole lot easier for someone _like_ you to _understand_ you."

Claire swallowed, nodding; he made so much sense. Too much sense, considering what _she_ herself was doing.

"Which is why I came to you and not your father." The man frowned. "We both know exactly what he would do in this situation."

Finally the door opened, and Bennet had a gun pointed directly between Samuel's eyes.

"No, tell me," he growled. "What _would_ Bennet do?"

Claire was equal parts relieved and nervous- why did he have to be so understandable?

"I don't mean you any harm, I swear," Samuel said.

"He said he was Becky's uncle," Claire added quietly.

Brown eyes locked on her in surprise—and disappointment. "You were stalling. You kept me talking."

Claire didn't smile. "You seem to like to talk." She tried to convey her apology through her gaze, but it was hard to do when she didn't know what she was sorry _for._ "You actually think that I would trust you over my dad?"

Bennet looked to his daughter and smiled—a true Company Girl response.

But he had no idea what Claire was thinking underneath.

_And_ , Claire realized later as her father shoved her to the ground, her hands cut open and bleeding from where she had braced herself, _maybe he never would._

* * *

 

Sylar's pen idly scratched across a napkin as he listened to Parkman talk. This was what he had been waiting for- god, and he was _so_ close to his answers. He hardly noticed anything else.

"Okay, so here's the truth," Parkman said. "After Peter took you down, I pushed Nathan's memories into your mind. I made your body think that it was him."

Sylar stopped, looked up—he didn't even think that Parkman could _do_ that sort of thing. And even if he could, he never thought that the supposedly straight-moral-compass Matt Parkman, overweight, out-of-work cop extraordinaire, _would_ do that sort of thing.

"Your shape-shirting took care of the rest."

Frustrated and finally realizing the depth of just of just how _fucked_ he was, Sylar threw his pen on the table with a heavy sigh.

"I had never done this before!" Parkman exclaimed. "I thought that I was pushing _all_ of Sylar out of that body." He looked helplessly at the enraged man that sat before him. "I had—I had _no idea_ that all of it would stay with me."

Fighting the urge to kill everyone left in the damn place just to vent his frustration, Sylar snarled, "Well, that's just _crazy._ "

When Lynette came over to take his plate, he tossed the napkin atop it carelessly, his gaze too focused on Parkman to notice the alarmed and frightened look she gave him. "Just the check, Lynette," he sighed. When she had gone, he hissed, "Clearly, you didn't decide to do this on your own. Who else was involved?"

And, against his better judgement, and even though he knew better, nervousness started to gnaw at him. Because _what if Claire had known?_ She had known that Parkman was supposed to save Nathan, after all. Could she have known about this, too?

"Mama Petrelli, right?" Sylar asked. "Who else?"

"Bennet," Matt conceded.

Sylar made a noise of agreement—Bennet was expected, of course. He _was_ Bennet, after all. And where there was an anti-Sylar plot, there was generally an angry Bennet with a gun and a sinister smile.

"Everyone else thinks you're dead."

Even though that was the logical conclusion, Sylar still couldn't help being surprised by it. Everyone thought that he was dead. That the invincible man had finally been killed.

_God, that must have killed her,_ Sylar thought, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the pain from showing on his face. _She thinks I'm dead. She thinks I left her alone, that I left our son. And after I promised her that I would be there... of course. And Angela—she knew about Claire and I, too, and she didn't tell her. What an evil woman._

He shook his head slightly, helpless, to an extent, and unknowing of what to do with what had been handed to him. Aside from the fact that he had to get his body back.

And then he had to find Claire.

"Well," he sighed. "I was off to see the wrong brother. I gotta go find Nathan."

_And I thought that killing him would solve everything. Ha—how wrong I was._

"...get my body back," Sylar added, tossing a bill down on the table.

"And then what are you gonna do?" Matt asked.

He laughed bitterly, scooping up his keys. "Then I'm going to kill every single person even _remotely_ involved."

When he left, he didn't expect much more excitement for the night. To get the car, maybe find a cheap motel somewhere, rest before heading out early and speeding toward the east coast. Sylar certainly didn't expect to be headed off by a legion of police cars.

"You should really pay more attention to what you're doodling on a napkin," Matt said quietly.

Sylar raised his hands, confused—what the hell could Parkman possibly have planned this time? "What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"Crossing a line," Parkman said, voice wavering. "You told me that I'm not man enough to take a life." He paused, swallowing, and Sylar could hear the shudder in the man's breath, could practically _feel_ the dread and guilt that was pouring off him. "Well, you know what? You're wrong. 'Cause I'm gonna take yours."

"You're an idiot. You'll die with me," Sylar hissed, but he was afraid. Really, truly afraid. Because, in this body, he wasn't invincible. In this body, he was just a man, and he could die very easily. And if he died in this state, there would be no coming back.

"Yeah," Parkman said shortly, letting out a sharp, terrified breath and a slight sound of guilt, almost inaudible over the waiting of the sirens. "I know."

And Sylar suddenly realized that, by doing this, Parkman would not only be killing Sylar and himself, but he would be leaving behind his wife and his little boy. He would be abandoning the very things that Sylar himself was working so hard to return to.

Using his ability, Matt moved Sylar's body, forcing him to carefully place him hand into the empty inside pocket of his jacket. The cops watched him with growing wariness, and Sylar realized exactly what Matt planned to do—suicide by cop.

_I can't let this happen! I'm so close!_ He thought desperately. _Claire!_

Matt's eyes widened as he accidentally read Sylar's mind, trying to make sense of it as his hand jerked away in surprise.

Shot after shot slammed into Matt's body, and Sylar fell to the ground as his organs began to shut down. Matt, still lingering behind, stared at the man in horror and understanding as he began to fade.

_What have I done?_

* * *

_I want you to have everything._

_The social life, the education._

_The white picket fence._

_All of it._

That churning, _wrong_ feeling in Claire's gut just wouldn't go away. Something had caused a rift tonight. A void between her and her father, a void in her life, in her mind... _I had it all, Dad. But now it's gone._

"Well, as you said," Claire whispered. "Sometimes life just isn't that simple."

Bennet stared at her, knowing that he was missing something huge, but couldn't possibly imagine what it is. So he accepted Claire's goodnight hug with a confused look and a sinking feeling, watching as she retreated into her room, the door closed behind her.

Claire stood with her back against the door, listening until she heard her father's retreating footsteps, and finally dissolved into tears.

_Something had changed._


	8. The Lies We Try To Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x9 "Brother's Keeper"

Claire's hands shook as she worked at the latch on the window. It was night—much later than she had expected to stay awake, but she couldn't help that, now. She pushed the window open, her ears assaulted by the pounding of rain on the pavement, too cold to be pleasant, but only just too warm to provide snow. The joys of Virginia, she supposed, as she crawled back into her bed.

Claire curled in her blankets and shivered; it really _was_ too cold to have the window open, but she simply couldn't sleep with the deafening silence. Growing up, she'd always been able to hear her parents' light snoring at night—when she was in her apartment, she could always hear the neighbors and the rush of traffic outside. In her dorm, now that Gretchen had gone, there was only the quiet. And it was far too distracting for Claire to sleep.

_I miss you,_ her mind called out pathetically, wishing that someone, anyone would hear. Would know what she was thinking. Because she was tired of all these secrets, and keeping the most significant portions of her life under wraps was finally getting to her.

She was starting to wonder if they were real.

Green eyes looked to the ceiling, unfocused and weary. "You asshole," she whispered. "You promised."

But, as Claire turned onto her side to stare at the open glass, she couldn't help hoping that, somehow, Sylar would crawl into her room and into her bed, apologizing for being away for so long, saying that he had things to take care of, more powers to collect. And then he would ask how she was, where Noah was, if she would be angry if he stayed.

And she would be angry. She would throw a fit. She might even push him away, her body crying out for him and his touch and his warmth, all the while. She would probably cry, even scream, and unleash all her pain, her rage, on her unsuspecting mate. She would take out almost a year's worth of pain and loneliness, wondering when he would show up, if she would ever see him again, if he would love their son. And she would take out nine months worth of agony, of thinking him dead, of dreaming of his face and thinking he was gone forever.

She might never forgive him for it.

But he had come back as soon as he could. And that was what mattered. That he came back as soon as possible.

And he would take it all. He would take every shout, every scratch, every slap. He would wipe every tear that spilled from jade-green eyes, would kiss her for every day he had missed, one each for her and for Noah. And when she had finally stopped trying to fight, had finally given into his apologies, he would lay her on her side on her tiny college cot and press his chest full to her back, his hands on her belly, rest his head in the hollow of her neck and inhale her scent, listening to the pounding of her heart.

"I'm so sorry," Sylar would say. And then, so quietly that she wouldn't be able to be sure, he would add, "I love you, too."

Nine months late, but never _too_ late.

Claire wasn't sure when she had started crying.

But how she _craved_ him. She missed every little bit of Sylar, even the parts she had always sworn to hate, even while she loved him. Just thinking of the way his eyes would go blank when the Hunger kicked in made her own eyes glaze over with pain. But those other memories, the softer, kinder things about him were the things that killed her- remembering the feel of soft hands against her skin, unabused by the toils of mortal men. Those little moments when his gaze started a tingling in her belly, warm, rather than cold, but just as calculating as he worked to understand her every breath and every beat of her infallible heart.

And it might have been better that he was gone. Better that he could no longer kill—the side effect of his ability. Better that he would no longer antagonize Nathan, Peter, Angela and Bennet. Better that he would never have to fake it ever again, when it came to their relationship.

But Claire could never think that it was _better_ that Sylar could never meet his son. Could never think that it was _better_ that he didn't have a chance to give everything to Noah that he didn't have, himself.

Because she was sure that he would have done anything to be a good father. But now he would never have that chance.

Claire pressed her face into her pillow and _screamed_ , agony muffled by cotton-wrapped polyester. For all the things she had lost, for all the things Noah had been deprived of, for all of the _good_ things about Gabriel Gray that had been smashed into bits, just like the watch he had stubbornly worn until the day he died.

She had to visit her father tomorrow, Claire reminded herself over and over, trying her hand in persuading herself into a fitful rest. She had to do laundry. And to get to his apartment, she would have to drive. And driving demanded sufficient rest beforehand.

But Claire couldn't, _hadn't_ slept well in weeks.

And Gretchen was gone.

Gretchen had been her last chance.

 

* * *

 

" _Claire? What's wrong?"_

"Nothing, Peter," she murmured into her phone later that night. "I just—I just needed someone to talk to. Someone who isn't my dad. You know what I mean?"

" _Yeah, I get it. What's going on?"_

"I'm just..." Claire trailed off into silence, her pillow damp against her cheek, soaked with her tears. "Lonely, I guess. I feel so detached."

" _Claire,_ " her uncle sighed. " _After everything you've gone through, that feeling is normal. I mean, just a few months ago, you were taken hostage by a serial killer, and before that, you were doing everything you could to outrun the government. That's bound to lead to some stress. Maybe even excessive anxiety."_

"So, what?" the girl snorted, the sting of being reminded of Sylar lingering far longer than she had wished. "Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder? Peter, that's not what I mean. Not really. I just..." She let out a soft breath. "I just lost my only friend, because of what I am. And everyone is so far away—Angela, Nathan, Rene, you—" _Noah._

" _Rene?"_

Claire grimaced. "Uh, the Haitian. Don't tell anyone I told you. I wasn't supposed to say anything."

" _The Haitian's name is_ Rene _? Jesus, Claire. Three years and I never knew that. How did you find out?"_

"Just drop it, Peter," she grumbled.

His laugh rang over the line, undiluted by static, and it made Claire ache for companionship so much that she wanted to cry all over again.

"God, I miss you," the blonde whispered.

Peter sobered at that, his voice soft when he replied, _"I know, honey. I miss you too. I still think that you should have stayed in New York, gone to NYU. You could have gotten in, and you know it. In a heartbeat."_

Claire nodded before she realized he couldn't see it. It was true—and it wasn't the first time she had thought about it. The idea was becoming more and more tempting. What did she have left at Arlington, anyway?

"I've thought about it," she admitted. "And I'm still thinking about it." Claire turned onto her back, looking away from her open window and toward her ceiling. "I love you, you know that? No matter what happens. No matter how many people you save."

A short silence echoed between them before he said, _"Who told you about that?"_

"My dad," Claire replied. "He mentioned it in passing. That you're counting them, every life you change. You know that you don't need to do that, Peter. You don't have to make up for all of our sins, to make up for all the lives these wars have taken. You're just one man—a _good_ man. And you don't have to sacrifice yourself to feel like you've done something good. Because who's gonna save _you_ , Peter?"

It was silent again for a long moment before Peter sighed, a soft, defeated sound. _"I know. I just—I want to make things right. I feel just as detached as you do, and I don't know why or how, and I—I just want it to stop. I just keep hoping that with every life, this hole will fill but it's just... not."_

"I know," Claire soothed, wishing that she was at home right now, sitting in front of her fireplace with her baby on her lap, smiling as he tugged on her hair. She would tell Peter that she was babysitting for a little extra money, and he would never have to know. "I know exactly how you feel. I just keep waiting, but every day, nothing changes. It's starting to drive me a little crazy."

" _Yeah,"_ He agreed. _"I should have known that you would understand it, Claire. You always seem to be the one who gets it—sometimes, the only one."_

Claire reveled in the truth of that statement, wishing she could say the same for him. But no one got her. Not really.

"Peter?" She asked.

" _Hm?"_

"Save people," she said. "But save them because you _want_ to save them. Not because you think you have to."

A long, shuddering sigh escaped her uncle, and Claire let a bittersweet smile twist her lips. She was the only one who could get through to him, the only one who understood him fully. If Peter wasn't her uncle, things would have been easier.

But she could never regret the way things had turned out.

" _Thank you, Claire. I have to go—I have something that I need to do."_

"Alright." Claire rolled onto her side again. "Take care, Peter."

" _You too."_

They hung up.

Claire closed her eyes, and tried once more to sleep in vain.

Up the coast, a man started to take down a wall full of newspaper clippings.

 

* * *

 

Rene was a tolerant man, usually. He gave second chances to those he felt deserved them. He pushed aside what was right or wrong, at times, in order to fulfill his sworn duties.

Protecting the Petrelli family heirs, for one.

In his eyes, that protection no longer applied to the son who had been replaced. But it _did_ apply to the other heirs, the live ones—Peter, Claire, and even the child of secrecy, Noah. He would give his life to protect any one of them, because, over the years, he had grown to consider them as part of his family.

But the body of Sylar would _never_ be so. No matter how much faith Angela's protege, the mother of his fostered son, placed in him.

So when he heard that Nathan had returned from his unexcused and unexpected absence, the Haitian man knew that he had to act quickly. Of course, Peter would be with him—Peter was _always_ with him, oblivious to the true nature of the man he put such faith in.

But the time to reveal this sin was long overdue. If they had disposed of Sylar, that would be one thing—but they had hurt Claire, and kept hurting her. They were hurting Peter. They were hurting Noah.

And while Rene had a fierce dislike for the father of the boy he considered his son, he knew that there were only two options in this situation.

Either Sylar had to be put down for good, or he had to be returned to where he belonged.

And that second option? At the moment, it _wasn't_ an option.

He went to Peter, knowing that his curiosity would lead him to the storage center, but overlooking the boy's blind devotion to his brother when he brought him along. While he could force Peter's hand, he could not personally get involved in such a delicate matter. He gave options, and options only. Telling Peter what to do could easily be considered a betrayal to Angela. And taking care of the matter himself would _certainly_ be a betrayal, hurting the entire Petrelli family in unimaginable ways.

"If you go, Peter, go _alone._ " It was the only warning he could spare. "What you discover may be more terrible than you can bear."

He left the youngest—the _only—_ Petrelli brother standing in the doorway, turning a card in his hand, a four digits penned on the back.

It had to be Peter's choice.

Claire was too much of a daughter to him, and Peter too much a brother to kill Nathan— _Sylar—_ himself.

 

* * *

 

He was weak.

Weak, weak, weak. How he _hated_ that word.

He'd collected all those powers to prevent weakness. He'd worked so very hard just so he would never have to be second-best again.

But, here he was. Second-best. _Again._

If Matt wasn't dying, he would have killed the man himself.

But— _strength._

It was welling inside their shared body, steadying their heartbeat, clearing the film from their eyes, separating their souls. When they were weak, they were one. When they were strong, their consciousnesses divided, stable enough to survive on their own. Matt didn't rely on Sylar's instinct to fight, Sylar didn't rely on Matt's desire to live, to _return_.

They opened their eyes.

Matt filled with dread. Sylar startled with anticipation.

_His body was here._

So close, nearly close enough to touch, if only Matt would reach out. So Sylar forced him to, to call Nathan closer, controlling him. And when Nathan's hand accidentally brushed Matt's, he was thrown back into that body that was not yet his.

It was worse than he could have imagined.

While he was alive, he couldn't access his mind. He couldn't get through the shield that was purely _Petrelli_ , couldn't get through the confused turmoil of a man who had learned he was actually dead. And while he fought, that chaos kept him weak. It kept him from merging with what should have been his.

But something happened that he couldn't explain.

There was a void, a place full of memories that were neither his nor Nathan's. They were the memories of a man he thought he had buried, locked in a consciousness that was something so familiar and lost and strange that he was overwhelmed by the flood.

_Gabriel._

He knew that Claire had brought him out, if only a little. But, now, he could hardly remember what she looked like, and her name was rapidly fading from his tired mind, pushed down by the flood of _new_ and _strange_ that was overwhelming him.

Lydia, Samuel, Edgar, Amanda, Tracy. A family, a carnival, a home. A place he belonged.

But—that couldn't be right. He had a family, had it with...

_What was her name again?_

Suppressed by Nathan and flooded by Gabriel, Sylar was drowning. Out of instinct, he knew he would fight. Out of strength, he knew he would win.

_But why was he fighting?_

Nathan was in control, and while the man could feel him there, Sylar had no way to escape—not yet. Not when he was so confused.

For once, he didn't understand.

_That girl—what was her name?_

_Who is she?_


	9. The Lies Our Parents Feed Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x10 "Thanksgiving"

" _Come on. You can invite Gretchen!"_ Her father's desperate plea for her company that night. Thanksgiving.

"Actually, I can't. She moved... _all_ the way across campus." Claire's response, as she stared at the empty bed across the room.

" _I'm sorry to hear that. And... that's my fault, isn't it?"_

"It's okay. It wasn't going to work out, anyway."

Never had anything Claire said been more true. Gretchen was a normal girl who deserved a life free of threats and abilities. She just wasn't the type of person that Claire could safely call a friend. Tracy Strauss had proved that to her, when she showed up in Bennet's apartment and gave Claire a sense of understanding and camaraderie that she'd never had with another woman. And, while it was Claire that was helping Tracy, she thought she might have just found her answer.

_I was sitting in this diner, thinking about—_

_About what?_

_About changing everything. My entire life... I've been so lost, Claire. I tried so hard to put my old life back together, but once I did, nothing fit I met this strange man named Samuel. He lives with a group of people—_

_Who all have abilities. Yeah, I met him too._

_He invited me to join them. To move to this place where we're all accepted. I think I might do it. Give up everything. Start a new life._

_Maybe you should! Maybe that's what your body is telling you it wants._

Tracy had pulled things out of Claire that she never wanted to admit. Things about Gretchen. Things about everything. Claire started to wonder if that was what it felt like to have an older sister. To have someone you can really trust, with everything.

_It just sounded so good on paper. "College". Now I'm starting to wonder if—_

She was glad Tracy stopped her before her father came in. What she had been planning to say, he never would have understood.

But she needed to tell him eventually.

_—if I should go home to my family. To where I belong. Because Arlington isn't it, but... I think New York_ is.

Bennet would find out eventually, like it or not. She had to do something to prevent the holocaust that was sure to come when he _did_.

Baby steps.

" _It would mean a lot to me, Claire."_

Laying on her side, cheek pressed to her blanket, Claire sighed at the imploring voice of her father. She knew it was unavoidable. Besides... "Okay. There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about, anyway."

" _Great. I'll see you at 4:30. Don't be late. Love you."_

Dial tone.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Nathan was asleep, it was his chance to strike.

Guard lowered, he was much easier to fight. The bottle of liquor he had downed in order to pass out only made it easier.

Did they never learn?

So he fought. He fought Nathan's memories of that day, of fighting with all he had. He fought Nathan's memories since then, of a baseball cap and a diving board and a pool stained with red. He fought the anxiousness he got when the Haitian looked at him with that _expression_. He fought the frustration with a mother that never told him everything he needed to know.

He fought against _twenty-seven_ missed calls to a blonde girl, her picture unframed and hidden in the top drawer of his desk.

_Goddamn it. That's not my memory, it's Nathan's. And the girl, that's—_

_Who is she again?_

Sylar hated it. He _knew_ that girl, he did. He was positive that he knew her, maybe more than anyone else ever had. They had... something. Something important. _She_ was important.

But, for the life of him, he couldn't break through Nathan's memories to figure out why she was. And then, before he could struggle too much, Gabriel would slip in, replacing the girl with an older woman, still blonde, still beautiful. But her eyes were brown, not green, and not warm, but calculating. Not like—

_Her_. The other one. Not like her.

Nathan's body jerked several times in his sleep, wracked by the fighting consciousnesses within.

Peter, on the outside, watched, ever-oblivious to the battle occurring just a few feet away. He was still struck dumb by the horror, by the denial of being told his brother, his _hero_ was dead.

Nathan couldn't be dead.

A knock on the door startled him out of his reverie, and he made his way toward the entryway of his apartment. He didn't know why he was surprised that his mother was there. His mother was _always_ there when things went south, but he never realized just how _true_ that really was.

As she went on about her Thanksgiving spiel, shoving assorted foodstuffs into her youngest son's arms, Peter tried his best to drown her out.

"Okay, and please remember to stir some milk into that. That's the way your brother likes it."

_...my dead brother?_

Peter broke. He had never been patient to begin with, but... he was done. No more lies. Because, _really_ , a shape-shifter was the best that she could come up with? And her obvious hiss when he mentioned Matt Parkman? She was too obvious to take seriously, and Peter knew.

"What did you do, Ma?" He whispered, halfway hidden behind the entryway, desperately wishing it could have been his brother, as it _should_ have been. Standing in front of him. Protecting him. Like he always had. "Is my brother really dead?"

Angela looked shocked, like she didn't know what to say.

"Answer him, Ma," Nathan growled from behind her. "We'd all like to hear that one."

If the visible wince she had at her supposed _son's_ voice wasn't a dead giveaway, Peter didn't know what was.

_How will I ever be able to tell Claire that both of her parents, now, have been murdered by Sylar? God, she doesn't need this. Not now._

But, mostly, he was still reeling.

His brother was dead.

When Angela tried to walk away, Nathan's hand darted out to grab her. It didn't matter that he was hurting her—he knew damn well that he was. Nathan was hurting, too. His life, his existence, it was all a _lie._

And then their mother retreated, submerging herself in denial. However, the truth was rapidly catching up in ways she couldn't deny.

Something had to give.

And, as Nathan's eyes met Peter's, and he saw the hate that lurked just under the surface, the older man thought that it might just be him.

 

* * *

 

She arrived fifteen minutes early to her father's apartment. Claire figured that if that wasn't enough time for him to recover, there would _never_ be enough time.

Butterflies pulled at her stomach as the door opened and as she was swept into Bennet's waiting arms. The pure _love_ in that simple gesture never failed to steady her, to make her feel safe, and Claire knew that it was now or never.

And then she noticed the apartment.

Surely it hadn't looked like this yesterday, right? Today, there was light and food and—were those _candles?_ What the hell happened to the place?

"What can I say, we clean up good," Bennet chuckled. "So, what can I get you? Some sparkling cider?"

"No, uh, I'm alright," Claire started hesitantly. "But before everyone gets here, I do want to talk to you about something."

"Okay. Just let me check the gravy first—" her father started.

"Oh, I got that!" A blonde woman swept into the room, all smiles and flushed cheeks and low-cut shirts.

Her presence made Claire pause. She couldn't be—

"Claire, you remember Lauren? She worked with me at Primatech."

"Uh...hi."

"Hi. You're all grown up! You look beautiful." The woman, Lauren, looked at her father. "It's okay, I've got this, _Wolfgang._ "

—a _date?_

"You should have told Mom!" Claire hissed.

"Your mother will understand," Noah replied, a bit nervously. "We're a complex, modern family, and she's got... Doug. So, what did you want to talk about?"

Another knock.

_Of course,_ Claire sighed internally. _This is going to be fun. I can see it already._

The blonde swept a butterscotch fuzzball into her arms, fingers stroking through soft, familiar fur. Mr. Muggles had been a part of her life for over nine years, now, and she couldn't imagine a family function without him.

_Will I ever have traditions?_ She thought to herself as her father made his acknowledgements around the table. _Will I ever be able to have this, with_ all _of my family? With my dad and my mom, with Nathan, Peter, Angela and Rene? With Noah?_

But Claire was distracted again by the infuriatingly insistent ploys by Doug to be included. Really, the man was just hitting a nerve for her, and Claire just hoped that she could last through dinner without being _too_ rude.

It wasn't looking too great.

"You know, in _my_ family, on Thanksgiving, we used to go around the table and everyone would say what they were thankful for."

An incredulous look was shared around the table. _Good, at least I'm not the only one he annoys to pieces._

Claire shot looks at her father, but he simply wasn't having it. Out of politeness, he gave a generic answer, one that didn't surprise Claire in the least—that he was thankful for her.

She wasn't sure how much longer _that_ would last.

"How about you, Claire?"

She chewed the food in her mouth, swallowing with a frown. "Uh... I know that I _should_ be thankful, but I'm just not feeling it right now." _Gretchen, Rene, Peter, Angela, Nathan, Sylar, Noah, Noah, Noah—_

"Is everything okay?" Her mother.

"Her roommate moved out." Her father.

"Why on earth would she do that? You're so likeable." Doug.

Her thread of patience? Yeah, it was about to snap. "Doug, you don't know anything about me."

Bennet gave her a look and the very dad-like _I'm-warning-you-be-on-your-best-behavior_ voice. " _Claire._ "

"What?" she asked defensively, a bit desperately. This was the last place she wanted to be. She wanted to be gone, to be _home_ , to be with her baby. She wanted to be in New York, on vacation from Arlington, sipping at a glass of wine while she shared a table with Rene and Annalise, her son seated next to her in a high chair with a bottle. She wanted to be there voluntarily, not because she was guilted into it by a single (not so single) father, suffering his first divorced holiday with his ex-wife and her new boyfriend. She wanted to be able to call Peter and wish him a happy Thanksgiving, and give him some obscure reason for why she _can't talk to Nathan, I really have to go, Peter, sorry, bye._

She didn't want this.

"You want to talk about it right now?" Claire growled.

Her mother's confused eyes lingered on her, and Noah didn't reply.

"Fine." Claire tossed her fork onto her plate with a clatter. "I'm thinking about dropping out of school."

 

* * *

 

"Nathan, would you please say grace?"

"No." He sounded like a petulant child, and he nearly winced as that unfamiliar voice escaped his mouth. He was getting there, so close, to the point where it seemed like he was no longer Sylar or Nathan or Gabriel. Just one man, lips moving, chest rumbling, eyes opening and closing. But he was getting there. He was pulling ahead.

"It's _Thanksgiving,_ Nathan. It's the one day we should express our gratitude."

"What do I have to be grateful for?" _My brother hates me, I'm dead, you hate me, where's my family, where are mismatched chairs and swirling voices, flashing lights, do I really exist, why do you hate me, you did this to me, **where is—**_ "I'm _dead._ He knows it. You know it. Why don't you tell us why? Put us all out of our misery."

Peter stared at his mother, and Nathan grew more detached—Sylar started to come together with every word spoken. Every sound, every syllable held a memory, suppressed by Nathan, but enough for him to just barely _glimpse—_

"Sylar was going to kill the president." _A suit, cufflinks, a body unconscious on the floor. A strange, burning desire, a hope lingering underneath. Cruelty, but justified, and still maybe a little sadistic, but he was Sylar, he was the strongest, he was the best—_

"And you two had flown off to stop him in that hotel in Washington." _Security guards, linked arms, a lingering thought about rabbits. Signing with his right hand, a lame excuse, knowing that he was through, that she knew, she wasn't supposed to know_. _A phone call, a loose gray sweater, the smell of peaches and vanilla lingering on long curls. A woman in his arms, lips pressed together, legs tangled, skin under his hands—_

"And I had a dream about you, Nathan." _The dream, the_ _ **dream**_ _, the thing that started this plan in the first place. Nathan would be saved, Sylar would die, and he couldn't let that happen, because, goddamnit,_ _ **he was going to be a—**_

"I saw you fighting for your life." _Kicking, punching, clawing, stubborn, futile attempts at winning. Didn't they know that he was the strongest? He was Sylar. Lightning and telekinesis and he pushed Nathan back, blood spilling over the neck, into his shirt,_ _ **going to be so mad at me—**_

"I also saw Matt Parkman save you." _ **You are now Nathan Petrelli—**_

"But I panicked, and I went and found him, and I dragged him to the hotel." _Leaving, not laughing, too much to do to watch the fools grieve—_

"But by the time we got there..." _**Make sure he's dead.**_

"I was already dead."

He was, he had been. And, not long after, Sylar would be dead, too, as far as anyone else was concerned. But now he was back, almost in control, so close—!

Soon everything would be back in its proper place. Nathan would be dead again, Gabriel would be gone again.

And Sylar?

He would understand again.

 

* * *

 

It was a war zone, to put it mildly.

"I know that you guys are freaking out, but I don't think college is where I'm supposed to be."

"Is this about Gretchen?" Her father's sharp eyes were focused solely on Claire, reading too much into the situation—or, maybe, not enough. "Because that is _one_ relationship."

The blonde swallowed, gritting her teeth. Lies, lies—it was all she ever said. But she had to come up with a plausible enough one to escape her father's whims. "Yeah, it _is_ about Gretchen. And it's about Becky, and it's about everything that's happened." Reasonable enough. The Becky thing didn't really freak her out so much—she couldn't be hurt, after all—but Bennet didn't need to know that.

Her mother started interjecting questions, then, still stunned and confused and desperately reaching for answers that Claire couldn't give when she was busy tearing into a fight like this. Sandra had always said that Claire could tumble with the best of them. The younger blonde figured it might have had something to do with growing up with Lyle—not to mention the Petrelli's fighting spirit in her blood.

"And where do you think you belong—or have you even thought about it yet?"

_I know exactly where I belong, and it's not here._

Lies and excuses, everything she said—she had no desire for a year abroad or to go backpacking through Europe, nor did she have any need for a job, what with Angela's accounts set aside for her. She just wanted to be home, warm, safe and taking care of the one thing that she knew would love her, no matter what she did.

"And the forty thousand dollars I just gave to the school, where do you think _that_ should go?" Bennet growled, increasingly agitated.

"I don't know, Dad," the green-eyed girl hissed it return. "Where did it _come_ from?"

He didn't answer that. It didn't really matter—if he was _that_ concerned about the money, she could easily pay him back. And it wasn't like she didn't intend to get an education—just not now, not so far from the only real thing in her life she had left.

Instead, hazel eyes shot to the figures on his left—Sandra and Doug. Sandra, who knew everything, but was clueless about Samuel, and Doug, who was clueless about, well... _everything_.

"This is about what that guy Samuel said, right?" He asked, his displeasure subtle.

"Who is Samuel? What is going on?" Sandra demanded.

"Maybe it is!"

"How could you even _consider_ listening to him?"

_Because I have another person to look out for beside myself. And I want him to grow up loved and accepted and understood completely. I want him to have friends. Not like me._

"Can I just interject something here?" Doug asked in a timid tone.

"No!" The resounding response.

"All I was going to say is what Claire is feeling is perfectly normal."

That was it. She was done.

" _Really?_ " Claire snarled, almost baffled by the man's stupidity and her own incredulity and rage. " _Is it,_ Doug? Do you think that _this—_ "

She grabbed her knife, plunging it into her wrist and _dragging_ until she could see straight to the bone underneath. She felt the tearing, but not the pain- even so, a welcome distraction from her boiling anger.

"—is going to blow over? How's that for _normal_?"

" _Claire!_ " Noah yelled.

"Oh, jeez." Lauren, at his side, merely sounded fondly exasperated, equal parts amused and pitying as Doug pitched sideways from his chair, falling with a resounding crash to the floor.

Noah let out a great, heaving sigh. " _Great._ "

"You were the one who said you wanted to talk about it," she muttered under her breath.

"Claire, honey—" Her mother cut herself off before she could go into a tirade. "Just—let's get you cleaned up."

"Fine by me," she replied, standing up and moving to the sink, where she wiped away the blood that had tailed to her elbow and was dripping on the floor.

As her father tended to Doug, Sandra stood by her daughter's side. "Claire—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Mom."

When her eyes met her mother's, she could have sworn that she could have seen shock and resignation there. However, it faded in a moment as her mother took the cloth, swiping it firmly over golden skin, before she tossed it in the trash. "You're not happy. I know that. And I know that you don't want to talk about it—though I think the more likely statement is you _can't_."

Claire stared at Sandra in surprise, questions bubbling in her chest. The woman leaned forward and pressed her lips to her daughter's temple under the pretense of a kiss.

She did not expect the words that were whispered against her hair.

"I saw the box months ago, Claire. I haven't and will not tell your father; that's up to you. I just hope you know what you're doing."

Her mouth fell open with a tiny _pop_.

Months of planning, months of careful avoidance, ruined in a moment.

"How—?"

Sandra grasped her daughter's hand and led her from the apartment, tossing an excuse over her shoulder about taking Claire outside so she could breathe. But Claire was reeling, spiraling out of control—how had this happened? How was it possible? She thought she had hidden the evidence—

Outside on the ground floor, Claire braced her back against a street lamp. She was starting to hyperventilate when a warm, familiar hand was laid on her shoulder.

"Claire."

Lost, helpless eyes locked on her mother, closing under her emotional tempest when the woman pulled her into a hug. Claire's arms fell flat against her sides, her eyes starting to burn with the sting of unshed, overwhelmed tears.

"Honey, breathe. I'm not angry, I'm just worried about you, and I've had the sense not to tell."

" _How?_ " the blonde breathed. "I just thought—I thought I hid it so well. I was so careful. I tore the box up—"

"Well, dear, after I found your brother with a dime bag stuffed between the trash bag and the can, I started checking through. It was just happy coincidence that I accidentally went through yours instead of his."

A heavy, shuddering breath escaped the young mother. "But it could have been anything. It could have been for someone else. It could have been negative—"

"Claire, you know as well as I do that you had very few friends in Costa Verde. And I thought about it being negative—trust me, I did. But when you started gaining weight, even just a little bit, I noticed. And then you asked to go away, and the timing was too perfect. If I was anyone else, I never would have known, but I do. So you can choose to trust me, or you can choose to keep me in the dark, but you know that I will keep any secret you give me."

Claire's arms wrapped around a thin waist in a rush, her face buried in her mother's neck as she trembled. All this time, this had been her secret that she had to keep. And now, she had the chance to share it, if she could bring herself to do it.

"I—" She swallowed, her voice muffled by gently perfumed skin. "I don't even know where to start."

"Bare basics are good enough for me, honey. Beside, we have to be back up in a moment—I expect that Noah thinks I'm scolding you."

_Noah._

Claire burst into tears.

Sandra rubbed her back, cooing soft, nonsense words to the child she had held since she was just a baby herself. "Take your time."

"His name is Noah," Claire gasped, hands fisting in Sandra's black sweater.

"Noah?" She could hear the smile in Sandra's voice. "You named him after your dad?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "And he's beautiful, Mom. He looks so much like his dad. And he's smart like him, too."

"Speaking of fathers," the woman replied. "Who—"

"I can't tell you." She would be firm on that, at least. Plausible deniability, in the worst case scenario. She couldn't put her mother into danger like that. Better to let her think the worst—though there wasn't much that could be worse than the truth. "Sorry."

"But it wasn't... I mean... it was consensual?" Her mother sounded worried by that, but Claire squashed those thoughts with her reply.

"Of course. He would have never forced me. I agreed to it. In fact, I kind of had to convince him of it." Too much information, she knew, but she was rambling.

"Well, that's good to know," Sandra said with a chuckle. "Does he know?"

"He did." Claire let Sandra process that statement for a moment.

"Something happened to him?"

She couldn't say anything more. Despite how she appeared, Sandra Bennet was a sharp woman, and if she knew that Claire's man had passed, combined with the knowledge that Claire couldn't speak of his identity, she would be sure to put two and two together. The ashes had sat on her table, after all, and though Claire never spoke of who it was, she was sure her father had.

So she ignored the previous statement. "I miss him, Mom. I hate being here, without him. I had to give him to a friend—"

"Wait, Claire—is that _safe?_ " Wide eyes pulled back from her daughter just slightly, and Sandra's face was tinged with worry.

The girl nodded with a sigh. "He's—there's no safer place that he could be right now. And he's very much loved, even though I can't be with him."

"And no one knows?"

A shake of her head sent curls tumbling over her shoulders. "You, Angela, and the couple that cares for him. That's all."

A soft, pained noise escaped the woman's chest.

"What?"

"Angela." Sandra frowned heavily. "That woman—"

"She helped me more than I could ever imagine, Mom," Claire replied. "She aided me through my pregnancy and the birth. She arranged for Noah's safety, much the way she arranged for mine. It's fine."

That seemed to calm her, if only a little. Well-weathered and elegant wrinkles creased the woman's forehead. "I can't imagine what you're going through, to be separated from him like that. And no one to help you—god, you must have been scared." Warm lips pressed to the top of Claire's head. All at once, she felt like a small child again. "I tried to call, but the phone lines weren't safe. I wish I could have helped you, honey. It's no walk on the beach, pain or no."

"The good news is, it won't be happening again soon," Claire shakily replied. "And one is just fine for me when there's no one to help me out. I just... I miss him, Mom. And I don't want to be stuck here anymore when there's no reason I should stay."

The woman pursed her lips, but gave a sympathetic nod, petting her hand over her daughter's golden curls. "I'll do what I can to nudge your father toward considering. It _is_ your life, and he can't plan it without you. Just... try to stick it out a little more, for me? Just until the winter break. Then you're home free, if that's what you want."

A sniffle and a nod was Claire's only response. Sandra sighed, smiling slightly as she wiped her fingers under her daughter's eyes, feeling a rush of sympathy toward the girl. She hadn't been exaggerating when she said she had to lie to everyone. If Noah got wind of this, he would be on the hunt in moments.

"Just promise me that when it comes time to tell your father, you'll approach it tactfully," Sandra murmured. "And you won't speak a word that I knew about it. Or I'd never hear the end of it."

"You keep my secrets, I keep yours," Claire agreed. She wiped the corners of her eyes, brushing away the slight smudging of her mascara. Luckily, it was mostly water resistant, otherwise she knew that she'd look like a raccoon. "Thank you, Mom. I really..." her voice cracked. "I _really_ appreciate it."

"I love you, honey," her mother murmured. "You've grown into being a beautiful woman. And while I wished you would have waited, these things do happen, and you took it like a soldier. I'm proud of you."

Folded into one more embrace, Claire finally started to feel her tension melt away.

Maybe she could do this. Maybe.

"Now let's get you back up there," Sandra said softly. "I have to check on poor Doug. He's..."

"Sorry about that," Claire muttered.

"Oh, it's alright. You're stressed and he's a bit easy to startle. He'll be fine." Taking old of her child's hand, Sandra led her back into the building with a firm smile and a muttered, "Just try to stay calm; things are going to be fine. I'll play dumb just like I always do, and you just keep doing what you've been doing. You're not alone anymore, Claire."

Claire nodded, the smile that pulled at her lips not at all forced.

She could survive this. She _would_ survive this.

For Noah. For her mother.

She still had a family. She just had to make _them_ see that.

And someday... maybe Claire could move on.

So when she saw Gretchen not ten minutes later, walking into her father's apartment with a soft, shy smile, Claire had to visibly clamp down on the flutter in her chest.

Gretchen wasn't Gabriel, wasn't Sylar. Gretchen was just Gretchen.

But maybe that could be okay.

 

* * *

_It feels good to finally be me again._

Nathan had shoved him back underneath, somehow. But he had tasted it, tasted the air, touched the control he so desperately wanted.

It wouldn't be long until he was taking control again, this time, once and for all.

And when he did, he was going to take every single one of his memories back, all the while burying Nathan and Gabriel so deep that they could never again emerge.

And, once and for all, he would _win._


	10. Loveless Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x11 "The Fifth Stage" and 4x12 "Upon This Rock"

The flashing lights of the Carnival accentuated the wonder set clear in the lines of her face. Claire was amazed by this place, fascinated, a little scared, but—it was beautiful.

It was both familiar and strange, different in design but similar in shape. It was an oasis, a shelter, a _home._

_The Indestructible Girl—_ she knew as soon as she'd seen it that she could easily fit in here. She could be safe here, with Noah. She could have a family here.

The children tugged at her heartstrings—young and vulnerable, but somehow strong from the shared burden of their birth. Bright, curious eyes soaked up her every move as she told them a story, wondering if, someday, she would see her own son among them, embraced by the children of strangers, his adopted brothers and sisters.

Would he listen as she told stories of how life was before her ability? Would he grow under the watchful eyes of a diverse and caring family, trained by many to be practical and hardworking as he became a man before them?

Claire couldn't tell if this was what she wanted, even though Lydia had said so. Part of her still clung to her tiny apartment in New York, to Peter and Angela and Rene and Annalise. She clung to the comfort of the name _Sarah Gray,_ strange and familiar as this path laid out before her.

She was conflicted, but her mind was eased. This was an option, a _safe_ one—a place she could fall back on without fail, a safe haven for herself and Noah.

That thought twisted deep in her gut when a child, a stranger's own young girl, embraced her before toddling off to bed. The girl didn't know her at all, but she readily and literally embraced Claire as a part of her life.

She wanted Noah to have that.

But why was Gretchen so against this place?

Ever since they had arrived, the girl had been nothing but disrespectful. Claire could understand that the girl didn't fit in, and while it may not have been comfortable for her, whatever happened to _I'll support you, no matter what?_ She had _insisted_ that Claire at least come in and look, but once she had, she had done everything she could to tear her away.

Why did she have to do this? Couldn't she just be happy that Claire was happy? If there was a time to talk her out of it, that time was long gone, now. Not when Claire was falling so quickly in love with this place. Not when Claire could relate to everything Samuel said, and every word Gretchen used to degrade him applied to her, too.

Of course there were little things that hurt, here. Little things that reminded her too much of times long gone.

Doyle reminded her of the very day she saved him—that was the night on the beach.

The man who called them freaks—Jackie, and the way she used to talk down to Claire.

Watching the crowds that flooded the Carnival—the crowded streets of New York, her true home.

Every step was a memory, but every step held a promise for a new life. Every laugh Claire let loose, she knew could be multiplied by a thousand if she stayed. Every warm and fuzzy moment could knit together to make a blanket to keep her and Noah protected from the cruelty of the world. Every person there could be her new best friend, one who truly understood everything she was going through.

But none of them would be Gretchen. Beautiful, brash Gretchen, who spoke before thinking and filtered none of her thoughts from her words. Gretchen, who desperately wanted to understand Claire, despite how different she was from her.

And none of them would be Sylar.

But it could be enough. She could have real friends, a real family. One that was not founded on lies and underhanded tricks and murder and death. A family that loved unconditionally, without the need for fear and control.

_I know what you were thinking, walking around tonight. That this place is awfully strange, yet strangely familiar. Am I right?_

She had.

_I think it's time for some soul-searching. And you're welcome to stay a few days and do just that. Before you go back to school._

She agreed.

So, when Gretchen asked her to take the first shift of driving her tiny black Nissan, Claire had to turn her down. She couldn't leave, not when she was so close to having what could very well be a second option. She could make a family here, if she wanted to—but she had to stay for a while and see what life would be like, if only she could work up the nerve.

_I saw your face, Claire. The way you looked at them, like you knew belonged. Like you knew them. God, I've never had that feeling anywhere in my whole life... I'm happy for you._

And Claire heart broke, just a little bit. Because in that moment, there was one parallel that she had never seen between Sylar and Gretchen that finally revealed itself—maybe the most important one.

It was the way they looked at her.

Dark, vulnerable eyes, despite the shields they attempted to put up to protect themselves. But, when they met hers, those shields fell, and they asked, _begged_ for her acceptance. For her love.

She had never felt as needed by anyone else—a need that came of pure, free will.

And while they were different people with different roles in her life, Claire finally realized something.

She loved them.

Both of them. Different kinds of love, but love all the same.

For Gretchen, that love was hopeful and trusting, putting her faith in the girl that had offered her friendship. It was light, but it was deep, and it would be hard to break, even in the face of conflict. It raised her up when she was feeling down, and tried to guide her toward the light, even when she stubbornly clung to the shadows.

For Sylar, the emotion was dark and anchored right into the very center of her being. It was a love betrayed by a broken promise, but one that would endure anything, despite her inner controversies. It was a love the likes of which could never be shaken, and was all-encompassing and endlessly accepting. It would never fade, but linger just underneath the surface, still holding on in a grim, tenacious belief that was purely _Claire._ It would stand in the face of that disappointment and hold true, though weathered, because of the things it had given to her.

And it had given her _so much._

Claire allowed herself comfort in the form of Gretchen's arms, oblivious to the conversation just a few feet behind her.

"You've gone to great lengths to bring her here," the fortune teller, Lydia, said to the Irish man. "She is awfully innocent. I'm not sure she's going to serve a purpose for you." _Aside from what I saw, what I told you. She has a greater connection to Sylar than any of us could have guessed. And what's more, she thinks him dead. Poor girl, so much longing for love, for a place to call her own. And to send away the one she loves most in search of his safety—I could never do that to Amanda. She is strong, she is pure. Claire Bennet, Sarah Gray._

"It's not her I'm after."

An unexpected vision, of which he planned to take advantage. Another player in the game, with a plan of his own, deviating from the rules.

_Claire, Sylar, Peter._

_With those three, I can be the most powerful man alive._

_And with Noah, I will be invincible._

* * *

 

Nathan could only suppress him before he was free again, and Sylar was nothing if not dedicated.

He tore Nathan apart from his place in the driver's seat, shredding thoughts and memories, clawing his way to the surface. It was killing him, he knew, but Sylar figured that it was only fitting, as the man had failed to just _die_ the first time. He wanted out, and he was going to get it now.

Nathan finally let go—figuratively and literally. As his hand slipped out of Peter's clammy, desperate grip, a fierce satisfaction welled up in the killer.

He was _free_.

Nathan was letting go.

But, of course, life wasn't that easy, he realized as he pushed himself off the top of the crushed-in car and sent a sardonic wave over his shoulder to the _only Petrelli brother_.

As soon as that feeling of success was there, Nathan's alarm and resignation cut it off. The memories that were finally released and not yet processed, shoved away.

The face of the blonde girl and the memory of her smile was put on lockdown.

_I will not let you hurt her, Sylar._

He stopped as he was about to round the corner and leaned back against the side of a building, the words pushing through his mind with such force that it nearly made him stumble.

"This isn't supposed to happen," he growled, the heel of one hand pressing against his eye. "You're dead!"

_There's enough of me left to protect what's mine._

"She's not yours!"

_Without me, she wouldn't be here. She is mine to care for and to protect from monsters like you._

His legs collapsed out from under him, and Sylar started to wonder if he wasn't quite as free as he had thought. "You weak, pathetic man. Can't you admit defeat?"

_I may be weak, but I'm enough of a man to keep a demon like you from hurting my family._

"I won't hurt her." His head dropped into his hands, and he wondered in the truth that statement brought. "I just—"

_I know what you did, even if you don't._

"What are you talking about?"

_Exactly._

Sylar struggled to bring her picture up in his mind, of blonde curls and smooth skin and smiles. He barely had the outline of her shape before a sharp pressure pushed it back, and a different—though similar—picture slipped inside.

"That's not her."

_That's all you're getting from us._ A different voice, now. His own voice. _Until you fix your own mess. Until you're worthy of her._

_**AngerRageHate she is mine—** _

" _I am Sylar!"_ The man snarled. "You will tell me what I need to know, or I will slaughter anyone in my way to get the information myself."

Silence.

"So be it," the man whispered, struggling to is feet, against the dual forces that wished to keep him subdued. "If that's how you want to play the game, Nathan. I'll find her. And if all you will _give me—_ " _the image of a blonde woman, brown eyes, a weathered smile and a shapely figure, flashing lights and a middle-aged man dressed in mismatched clothing, a compass in his hand._ "—is _this_ , then I'll follow this road to the end."

He shot up into the air, sighing at the feeling of the air on _his_ face, of the lightness in _his_ body.

_I'll find her, even if it takes forever._

* * *

 

Lydia was an interesting woman.

She was beautiful, but somehow cold in the way she addressed others, except for a select few. She constantly exposed her skin, the map that could spill secrets. She knew more than she was letting on; of that, Claire was sure.

But that the same time, Lydia was just a woman, just a mother—just like her. When she argued with her daughter, Claire could hear the worry and love in her voice, despite her stern tone. And when she rounded on the younger girl, a slight thrill at her viciousness went up her spine.

"Something funny?"

It wasn't funny, it was _normal_. And that, in a sense, was funny in and of itself.

"You know things, right? I mean, you can see things... with your tattoos."That was what she _really_ wanted to ask. How much did Lydia know, and how much was she withholding?

"Sometimes. Why?"

_Did you see the truth about me?_ "I was just wondering if you knew why Samuel wanted me here."

Claire's watched as the woman's face pinged with guilt, wiped smooth before she could be sure. _That's weird._

"Well, lately he's wanted a lot of people here; half of them want to date my daughter..."

Diversion tactics. It seemed Lydia was a master, since now there was no way she could turn the conversation back around without seeming suspicious. Damn it.

"Why's he bringing so many people in?"

A slight, graceful shrug. "It's become an obsession of his... he spent all morning in his trailer."

"Yeah, with my dad's files."

A conspiratorial glance toward the hunk of metal nearly made Claire smile— _what a woman. She wants me to interfere in her business, to do the work for her._ Lydia's mouth opened, though she stayed silent for a moment before her next words. "Be careful... with Samuel."

Claire blinked, turning to her. "What do you mean?"

The woman looked uncomfortable for a long moment, eyeing the creepy man that had been watching Claire all day, and leaning forward so he wouldn't be able to _dream_ of hearing what she said next.

"Do not trust him. Especially not with the things you hold most dear." The meaning in her words was clear.

Claire pursed her lips. "You saw?"

She nodded. "And Samuel makes me tell him everything I see. He's not what he seems, Claire. He'll try to make you trust him, but whatever you do... _don't._ "

"You—" Outrage bloomed in Claire's chest. Lydia had _told Samuel_.

"Claire, you have to understand. All these new people won't be the only ones, and there are terrible, terrible secrets in this place that I can't be responsible to reveal. You need to find out what's going on here, then get out. None of the rest of us can. It's up to you to get us help in any way you can."

Pursed, pink lips—more of a disappointed, motherly look than Lydia had ever been able to muster. For all her age and blonde curls and pompoms, maybe this girl wasn't quite as innocent as Lydia had assumed. Maybe she just hid it better than any of them ever had.

"What do you want me to do?"

"His files," Lydia whispered. "He only just got them from the outside. Get them out before Samuel can go through with his plans. And, for god's sake, be careful of Eli. He's more troublesome than he's worth—he has no thought of his own and lives for orders."

"You want me to—?" Claire huffed out a sigh. " _Fine._ But you're going to owe me one, Lydia. A really, really big one. And there'll be no weaseling your way out of _that._ "

_At least she has the decency to look chastised,_ Claire thought with a grim smirk.

She pushed herself away from the congregation of mismatched card tables, prepared to wander for as long as she had to in order to throw off Samuel's lapdog— _Eli._

And then she would be home free.

Piece of cake.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't quite so easy as it seemed.

Claire had been headed off by the man... men... more than once. It didn't happen until that night that she could finally outsmart him. Using his own power against him seemed to be the only way, and it worked.

What she got in reward were pictures, topographical maps, handwritten notes scrawled on scrap paper. Apart, they made no sense. There had to be more.

She didn't get a chance to find _more._

She was torn bodily from the trailer, trapped in an all-too-familiar ability in a grip much more sinister than the last man who had used it on her. The blonde was trapped, and she knew it.

"I believed what Samuel was saying was real, but he's _collecting_ people with abilities," Claire hissed to Doyle, resident carnie and puppet master.

"Yeah, why shouldn't he?" The man snapped. "We're a _family_. You wouldn't understand that, would you, Barbie, huh?"

_More than you know._

" _No._ You only see the worst in people." Her hand dropped, clenching around a sharp-ended paintbrush, heart racing as the man pressed it into her throat. What would he do, pin her to the trailer? Claire nearly scoffed at the idea.

"Makes me want to pin you to that trailer, so Samuel can find you when he gets back."

...apparently, that _was_ his plan.

"Listen to me! I don't want to destroy this place. But if Samuel's brining people n for a reason, don't you think that's gonna put everyone in danger? You _know_ me. Do you seriously think I want to destroy your home?"

The man looked close to tears, but after the raging argument between them, Claire wasn't entirely surprised. She _was_ relieved, however, when the man released her, but filled with annoyance at his response.

"Talk to Lydia. She knows."

_Of course she does._

"Thank you."

It wasn't a long walk to cross the group of trailers to where Lydia lived—of course, her near run probably helped in that situation.

"Lydia?"

"Claire? What are you doing here?"

She scowled at the woman, the temptress and liar, the withholder of the Carnival's secrets. Why wouldn't she have just told Claire herself and spared her the little _adventure?_

"I just went into Samuel's trailer. He has a map of the valley; what is he planning?"

The woman glanced over Claire's shoulder, another one of her avoidance tactics—but this time, Claire wasn't fooled.

" _Lydia_ , you waned me to go in there for a reason. Why?"

More wide-eyed silence.

"You know something and you're not telling me what it is!"

That, apparently, was enough to get the woman to talk. "Samuel wasn't... he wasn't always in charge. Joseph, he was our _real_ father. He made this place a home." Lydia looked down, her eyes overcast with a slight sheen. "And I miss him. We _all_ miss him."

Stricken, Claire's frustrated blaze of anger cooled into a slow fizz. She knew how that felt—knew _Lydia_ knew that she'd felt that very way before. The angry Claire gave way to her more empathetic side, and she deflated. "What happened to him?"

The woman shook her head, attempting to hide the few tears that fell down her cheeks. Claire waited for an answer, but with every second of the woman's silence, she found she didn't have to.

"He killed him, didn't he?"

Lydia swallowed, blinking back the remainder of her tears. Her voice was a harsh whisper when she replied, "He's lost his way, Claire. I am _scared—_ for all of us."

In the end, she was just like Claire—a mother trying to protect her child in any way she could. With lies, with manipulation, even with killing, if that was what it took. She wouldn't put her baby in danger, no matter how grown up and self-righteous that baby was.

"You know, I woke up this morning, and I wasn't sure about this place," Claire said softly. "But this place is special. For you and for your daughter. Even _Doyle_. I—" She stopped and shook her head. "The only thing wrong with it is Samuel."

"You have to help us," Lydia begged. "Please. You have to find someone that can stop him."

If circumstances were different, Claire would know exactly who.

"I will."

She was seized from behind once she left the boundary of Lydia's trailer. This wasn't turning out to be the best day, overall, but at least she had the truth.

 

* * *

 

"This is _not_ about my father, okay? This is about what _you_ did!"

After a long night being held hostage, Claire could pretty easily say that she was irritable. It wasn't _her_ fault that people pushed her to pick at old wounds. When put under pressure, that was just what she _did._ And it almost always worked.

Samuel stepped back, face twisted by his pain and guilt as he rasped out, " _What I did was awful!_ "

The surprise shut her up for a moment.

"But Joseph put us all in danger. After years of running free, I wasn't about to let him get away with that! I wasn't about to let him take that away from us!" The angry tone of Samuel's voice put his Irish lilt into full swing, the rage of being pushed stripping away his boundaries of propriety and civility.

"So _murder_ was the answer?" Claire replied.

Samuel's eyes went cold. " _You,_ of all people, should understand how far a father would go to protect his family."

Green eyes widened, cold sweeping through her chest. _How **dare**_ _he—_

The Irish man saw as that absolute _murder_ swept through the girl's body, seeking to smooth it over as he breathed, "Hasn't your father lied, cheated, even _killed_ to protect you?"

Claire's fists tensed, the pieces of her heart that she had tried so hard to put back together falling apart, awry and amok, on the floor on her soul. That was what she deserved. She should have known that Samuel would fire back with all he had against her.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

"What's going on out in that valley?"

The regret that was plastered on that face threatened to make her sick. But Claire had dealt with worse things, even if none of them had been this incredibly personal. Of all the people to know the truth and to use it against her, she hardly expected Samuel to be the one that did.

Out of pity, the man humored her.

Watching the valley grow was beautiful and stunning; hardly what she expected from Samuel. But, she considered, there still had to be some manner of good inside him. Maybe he was just trying to make up for his mistakes.

What she was absolutely unprepared for was the sudden return of service to her cell phone, which had been blocked by the huge metal contraptions inside of the Carnival's walls. Instantly, her phone was flooded with fifteen voice messages.

Claire winced. She should have remembered that her father would be pissed.

" _Claire, we need to talk."_

" _Claire-bear, call me!"_

She deleted them both.

" _Claire, hey, it's Peter."_ What? She froze, listening hard. _"Um... you need to call me. Something happened... we have a lot to talk about."_

"What?" She whispered as the message died out. "No, that can't be it. Damn it, Peter..."

She hit redial.

" _Claire! Thank god, there you are—"_

"What happened, Peter?" Claire asked. With all they had been through, she knew that whatever had happened had to be catastrophic to warrant a voicemail like that.

Peter at least spared her the bullshit. _"Nathan's dead."_

The breath left her lungs. " _What?_ "

A choked sob echoed over the fuzzy line. _"He's dead, Claire. Sylar—god, it's terrible. I can't_ _believe they did that to us, I just—"_

" _Peter_ ," Claire cut him off, and she didn't care how heartless it was at that moment. Because she could have sworn she heard Peter say— "What _about_ Sylar?"

" _He's alive."_

And her decimated heart burst into flames, the ashes scattered all the way to the sea.

 

 


	11. Rebirth by Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x13 "Let It Bleed"

The funeral had just about killed her.

It _hurt_ , in ways Claire had forgotten she even _could_.

Nathan was gone, had been for months. She had been avoiding him all this time, and now... what was there to be said? That he was an ass for getting himself killed? That he was a bastard for tearing her apart with Sylar's death, then going off and dying, himself?

And _Sylar_.

She didn't even know what to think about him. She should have been relieved, excited, and in a way, she was. He was alive.

But he wasn't _there_. Why wasn't he there? Why hadn't he broken out and run straight to her, to apologize for everything? Why hadn't he come to her and asked to see Noah, their _son?_

No, he was off doing god-knows what with god-knows who. Instead of coming to her, he had gone right back to his old patterns—running, killing and avoiding.

...she had been missing _that_ , all this time?

He had killed Nathan. Even though she knew it was a distinct possibility at the time, she never actually thought about what it would be like.

Now, more than ever, she found that she _missed_ that lying bastard and his politician's smile and tough-love attitude. She missed the gentle way he would reprimand her when she was being a brat, that awe-struck look that she'd never seen him give his two boys, but _always_ gave to her, like he was stunned to silence by her very presence in his life. The way his smile would fade and he would redirect her whenever she was picking on Peter. The infuriating ways he tried so hard to protect her, _the girl who couldn't be hurt_ , and usually managed to alienate her in the process.

She missed him and loved him and hated him at the same time.

Kind of how she felt about Sylar, except that _hate_ part was working its way up on her _list of thing's I'm angry at._ Her father being in the top slot, just because he kept doing these things, over and over. Angela second only to Bennet, because she _knew, damnit_ , and she _still_ lied to Claire.

And then there was Sylar, raising hell for Peter—one of his least favorite people—and off the grid for her.

_God damnit, I'm tired of the lies,_ Claire thought as she entered Angela's Washington D.C. Penthouse—alone. Her rage was bubbling, frothing, and she wanted to kill everyone who so much as _looked_ at her.

But when Peter lay eyes on her, looking to be in an ever worse state than she did, Claire's anger gave way to a sad smile. Peter looked trapped at his mother's side, suffocated by her presence, and the younger girl opened her arms as an invitation for escape. The relief melted onto the man's face, and he edged away from Angela in favor of being wrapped in Claire's arms.

"You want to help me in the kitchen?" Peter asked in a low rush.

"Trying to escape?" She countered with a tight smile.

"As quickly as possible." He led her away from the churning mass of black-wearing sympathizers, taking no time in kicking the servants out of the kitchen in favor of doing the tasks himself. Chopping various citrus fruits seemed a reasonable price to pay if it meant escaping the spotlight—he never was an attention whore like Nathan. Peter loathed the spotlight, preferring to change lives from the shadows, where he was comfortable.

"Hey, where's your dad? I didn't see him out there."

Peter always had a way of rushing headfirst into sore subjects.

"Uh... I asked him not to come." Claire levered a knife in her usual reckless way, not too entirely careful to keep her fingers out of the way, but generally precise.

"Ahh," Peter sighed, sounding faintly and bitterly amused. "You're pissed?"

"You're not?" Claire gave him a look; she hoped he was, no matter how selfish that seemed. She didn't want to be the only one who was suffering.

"Oh, I am," Peter assured her with a grim smirk.

"Good." She felt bad as it slipped out, but it was true. "'Cause you're about the only person who's on the same page as me." She trailed off into silence as she reached for another fruit. "That's a _hell_ of a lie."

"Trying to protect us."

Why the _hell_ did he sound so understanding? That wasn't fair. She needed someone to rage with her, to hate the world as they screamed and yelled at the unfairness of it all.

"Yeah, that's _fine_. I get that," Claire muttered, the slicing motions of the knife speeding in her agitation. "I mean, did they really think that they were gonna get away with it? _Forever?_ That we would just _never_ find out?" _How do you expect me to not notice if Nathan doesn't age, if he doesn't **die**_ **?** _I'm going to live forever, and you expected for me not to know? What were they going to do, hide him from me until Noah was grown up, make him live his whole life without his father? Make me live without him? Not that it matters, because he's apparently **perfectly** fine living without **me** —_

"Ow! _Damn_ it!"

The knife sliced into her skin with a sharp sting. Claire acted on reflex, holding her hand close and almost refusing surrendering it to Peter's careful gaze, before she realized _but I can't feel pain_.

"It's not healing," Claire said dumbly. _Oh god, just my luck—_

"Uh..." Realization lit up Peter's eyes. "I have the Haitian's power. I'll... sorry, I'll turn it off." He reached for a towel with which to clean her hand, and Claire jolted a little at the absolute _normalcy_ of that action.

"No, don't," she said softly. "Don't."

His understanding gaze nearly broke her, but Peter always knew what to say—what _not_ to say. "Let me find you a Band-Aid."

Claire laughed bitterly as she held the embroidered towel to her bleeding finger, absently hoping that it was expensive and the stains wouldn't come out. It would serve Angela right to have her things ruined, even if she could replace them a thousand times over.

"A Band-Aid," Claire chuckled. "I have not used a Band-Aid in forever." She smiled at her usually goofy uncle, unusually sobered by the death of the person who had been closest to him; she knew how it was. "It's nice to feel pain, to feel normal."

"Or anything _but_ normal," Peter muttered.

_Right. Or this mindfuck never would have been possible._

"Mourning Nathan could not be more ordinary," she replied. "It's what we're here to do. To cut lemons and limes and remember... that _stupid jerk_."

They were both silent before Claire whispered, "I can't believe he's gone."

But, while Claire was nearly ready to let go, it was clear that Peter was not.

And later that night, when faced with her grandmother, Claire was surprised at the woman's reaction. She didn't expect Claire's forgiveness, and that immediately dropped her place on _the list_ a few spaces— _well_ beneath Bennet and Sylar. Maybe even beneath Nathan, himself.

"Please help him," the woman begged.

_I would have done the same for my son,_ Claire realized finally. _Twisted as it was, she meant well, and she knows how badly she messed up._

But Claire wasn't doing this for Angela—it was for Peter, the fool that he was.

When she found herself alone on the rooftop, her face fell as she saw the police scanner.

_Oh, Peter, what have you done?_

* * *

 

This was it.

He knew the lights as they flashed all around him, encompassing him, sheltering him from the outside. It was comforting, but in a way that he couldn't entirely remember beyond working days and relaxing nights.

This was familiar.

Sylar was in the right place.

Doyle attempted to head him off at the entrance, but Sylar was quicker, tossing the man like a sack of potatoes as he casually strolled into the place. Better to make a statement early, he figured. It set the right mood.

"Hello Samuel," Sylar practically purred as he came to a stop before the man's broken table and smashed jars of ink.

The Irish man turned, fear and giddy relief tinting his voice. "Sylar."

"Oh, good. You remembered."

He muttered something to Doyle about getting the others away—he almost laughed at the thought. As if _anyone_ could escape him. Only one person ever had, and even _she_ eventually fell to him. Her maintained state of life was just a coincidence, one that he was glad for—

—or would be, if only he could remember her properly. _Damn you, Nathan, to the deepest pits of hell._

"You're just delaying the inevitable," Sylar said with a smirk.

"You could have killed Doyle. You didn't," Samuel observed.

_Well, I already have that power. No use in killing an unnecessary victim, not here, where it would startle off the others. And not when I'm in search of a bigger fish._

"I'll get to him. I'm much more interested in you." He pulled the compass from his pocket, where he had placed it after retrieving the brass circle from Nathan's apartment, where the man had left it after his own little rendezvous with the Carnival. Skin-warmed against his palm, he tossed the comforting weight at Samuel, along with a line or two, just to razz him up a bit.

The joys of the hunt were just as satisfying as the kill.

" _Love_ what you've done with the place," Sylar murmured, holding Samuel to the wall of his trailer where he was pinned with telekinesis. "Brought a lot more people in here. Gonna make me a lot more powerful."

"No. It makes _me_ more powerful," the Irish man rasped around his panting breaths. "I've got big plans for you. Kill me now, you'll never know what could be."

" _Everybody_ has big plans for me," the younger replied with a dry chuckle. "I think that's _all_ people have."

He leveled his forefinger with the man's forehead.

_Except for her. She never had a motive, she had a soul—_

_**I will not let you kill again.** _

He shot a surprised glance at his hand, which was no longer following his orders. In fact, it seemed to be controlled by another, muffling his ability and making him... weak.

He didn't get much of another chance for thought as his face was rearranged by Samuel's power.

 

* * *

 

Knowing that he was back to normal made Sylar much more intimidating, Lydia found. Even when the man's bloody body had been dumped unceremoniously in her home.

"Why did you put Sylar in my trailer?" Lydia asked as Samuel passed by her.

"Because you're going to help him."

"He's not—" she asked in shock.

"Dead? No. No, he's amazingly resilient." The man was wistful as he mused, "Muscles knitting back into flesh."

_Claire_ , Lydia thought. _Of course he would. That would explain what I saw._

"But even though all the parts are back into place, there's something wrong with him," Samuel sighed.

"Well, yeah—" the woman snorted.

"No. Not that. He had the chance to end me and he _couldn't_. He's _different—_ not the cold-blooded killer, not the blank slate."

"Then, what?"

"That's what you're going to find out- and how we can use that to our advantage."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Lydia asked.

Samuel nearly scoffed. "With your _charming personality._ "

Lydia's face was almost horrified. _But he's not mine. He belongs to Claire—I can't do that to her. She loves him. She has a **son** with him._ "I'm not some piece of flesh you can just toss around."

"You didn't seem to mind the last time he was here," the man sneered.

She _was_ horrified, now, and angry, too. _That was before I knew what I know now. I enjoy the pleasures of the body, but I know where I draw the line, and that's where another woman's territory comes into play. Claire might be young, but she's still a woman, and this man is her mate. She would kill for him, **die** for him, and Samuel wants me to take advantage of him in his vulnerable state? What a sick bastard._

"Don't be petulant, it's ugly. Everyone has to do their share."

"I know the rules," she snapped.

Her anger was enough to essentially drown out his reply, her thoughts still churning with the implications of what she was bid to do, of what she _had_ to do, if she wanted to keep her baby safe. Claire would understand that, she would have to. Lydia had no other choice.

"Don't disappoint me," Samuel said in a sinister whisper with a kiss on the back of her hand. Then, he was on his way, losing himself in the shadows and the lights, and leaving Lydia standing alone in the doorway of her own home, confused and conflicted, about to become, potentially, a homewrecker. She'd never torn apart a family before, not when her own was under such stress and she knew how it would feel.

Maybe there was another way.

But she would have to be clever about it. That, and quick.

She turned to enter her trailer, dropping her sweater onto the floor. Sylar rested on her bed, chest exposed through an unbuttoned shirt, as his old clothing had been ripped to pieces in Samuel's vortex.

He really _was_ a beautiful man. She'd known that before, but she'd never gotten far with him, either. He had always pushed her away, eyes haunted by memories that, at the time, were not his to claim.

But, now they were his again.

_Claire_ should be his, again.

"Your skin is so soft," Lydia mumbled, silly, senseless words as her fingers brushed over his cheek. "Just like a baby."

Brown eyes flickered open, for a moment, desperate and confused, before they filled with an unsettled emotion, but also recognition. He remembered her, then. Or, at least, he remembered the _idea_ of her. "What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna help figure out what's wrong with you," she said quietly.

Wrong thing to say, as it would turn out.

 

* * *

 

Sylar grabbed the woman's hand, pulling it away from him. While he was angry at her words, he couldn't help but feel excited, because _this is the woman I keep seeing. She knows. She has my answers._

"There's nothing wrong with me."

Her startled breaths were only interrupted by words. "I heard differently. You couldn't kill Samuel." Her hand moved to touch his cheek again. "Let's find out why."

When she went to kiss him, he turned away. It was an automatic response—while she was close, she wasn't the perfect match. She wasn't _really_ the one he was looking for. She just knew how to find her.

"What're you afraid of?" The woman asked.

Well, Sylar never turned down a challenge.

He twined his fingers into her hair, lips meeting hers, trying to ignore the utter _wrongness_ that echoed through him. _This isn't her, this isn't her, it's good but not the same and it isn't **her**._ But still, he didn't stop, content to let the woman decide. Whatever he would have to do, he would, if he got his answers.

Images flooded him, flashes of familiar memories, things he remembered, as well as things he didn't, couldn't. Some of them weren't his, but they were still precious insight.

_Matt Parkman and his wife, Janice, and the love and acceptance the man found with her. Nathan, his arm around his baby brother as they walked together, teasing and familial and a deep, all-accepting, all-forgiving love. Matt Parkman, a smile on his face and a baby in his arms, feeling needed. Nathan and Peter in tuxedos, smiling together. Nathan comforting Peter on the day of their father's death, empathetic and hoping to cure his brother's pain._

_**Nathan securing the clasp of a necklace around the girl's neck, needing to protect her, loving her so much. The girl in Nathan'sGabriel'sHis arms, completely and totally at peace, despite the raging of the world outside. She was his, he loved her, he was loved, he was hers.** _

Sylar pushed the woman away—Lydia, he remembered, now.

But the woman sounded fiercely triumphant as she proclaimed, "You're lonely. And you're afraid you're gonna die alone. But you want love—you just don't think that you deserve it."

Spot on, and he _hated it._ He loathed the feel of her hands against his skin, now. They were the wrong hands belonging to the wrong woman, a woman who was using him and trying not to be used, herself. But he hated her all the same; she shouldn't be able to know him like that.

He knew, without a doubt, that she had seen everything he had.

"Do you know what I do to people like you?" Sylar asked, low and sinister-smooth.

"You cut open our heads. You steal our powers." Though Lydia's voice just about quivered with fear, the maintained her calm, controlling facade.

Sylar moved her hair from her shoulder to better examine one of the tattoos branded onto her skin, permanent pictures that would never fade or be forgotten. "And you see what people want." He lay his temple against her forehead, fulfilling his need for temporary contact before he was reminded that _this isn't her._

"Their desires..." he continued in a whisper. "Their hopes... I like it." He kissed her once, brief, short—just as he thought, of course. Good, but not the same.

"What're the tattoos for?" He asked.

"A map," Lydia answered. "How to find what you need."

His heart rate sped at her words; she _knew_. She knew what he was looking for, and, _damn it_ , he wanted what she knew and he wanted it _now._ His hand tightened around her throat, enough to threaten, not enough to harm. Enough to make her breathing stutter and maybe cause a few superficial bruises. For him, it was practically a slap on the wrist and a pat on the head.

"You don't want to help me," he said with grim certainty, wondering why he felt somehow betrayed, though she certainly had promised him nothing and nor him to her, and he didn't know her and she was just another woman. "You want to manipulate me to your agenda to kill Samuel."

Her eyes were fearful, and he was powerful. That was how it was, how it should be.

"I see what you want." A smirk curled his lips. "I got your power. I don't need to kill; that's just something I like to do."

"Not anymore," Lydia replied sharply. "You're impotent."

He shoved her away, on his feet in a moment. Rage bubbled in his gut, warm and familiar, _begging_ him to just kill her and be on his way. Hell, he _wanted_ to.

_I won't let you._

A soft sigh escaped him, frustrated and exasperated and somehow relieved. With a shake of his head, Sylar grabbed the shirt Lydia had pushed from his shoulders earlier and ducked out of the trailer, slamming the door behind him.

_You're impotent._

_That's certainly one way to put it,_ the smug voice of Nathan echoed in his ears.

 

* * *

_That idiot_ , Claire thought as she looked down at the beaten and bloodied form of her uncle, laid out on a stretcher.

_He doesn't know how to mourn, so he goes out and gets shot. Yep, that's smart. Typical Peter._

"That hurts every time," that man chuckled through his pain.

"Well, it's supposed to. That's what happens when you take a bullet," she replied with a slightly bitter smile. _Not for me._

"I thought I'd get to him first."

_You can't save everyone, Peter._

"I did take him down, though." He smiled a little at that.

Claire gave him a fondly exasperated look. "Yeah. You saved the day."

"And it's your turn, now, Claire."

The girl frowned, then finally noticed the hand Peter had managed to worm out from underneath the blanket the paramedics had placed over him. Annoyance flickered through her—what was she, a _gumball machine?_

"Come on," Peter pleaded, a pained and desperate tear sliding down the side of his face. Claire's chest clenched at the sight of it. "Help me out."

"I don't think that's gonna solve anything, is it?" She asked him with a frown. She felt bad for it—she hated to deny him anything, especially when he did so much for her. But there was more to this than just taking her power- he was using it as an excuse to be reckless, as a way to escape the pain he was feeling on the inside.

"What are you talking about? Quit messing around." He was annoyed, but that was okay. He could be angry all he wanted. It was better than being in denial.

" _I'm_ messing around?" Claire asked in surprise. "What about _you_ , huh? Running into danger, going off after Sylar. You're not gonna do _anything_ but get yourself into trouble. You've _got_ to _stop_." _I can't lose you too, you idiot. And I won't lose him, either, even if he's already gone. Not again._

"No," Peter murmured stubbornly.

"You _have_ to."

"I can't!"

His face was agonized, his stance was defeated, even while strapped to a gurney. His heart was broken, and Claire knew it—more than it had ever been before. The empathetic strings that held up the foundation of his being were fraying under the weight of this loss. Nathan had been everything to him—his father figure, his hero, his idol, his best friend. All the things that he had learned to lean on, all his crutches, all his encouragement to keep going, to be smart, to _think_ before complicating his life, _gone._

She covered his hand with her own, twining their fingers. Peter was a tender soul, much younger than he had seemed, and, now, he was being forced to grow up. There was nothing she could do but help him, and maybe guide him on his way. She could never be to him what Nathan had been, but she could be his savior every once in a while when he really needed it.

The relief flooded over Peter's face when he took her power, the freedom from his physical pain, and a gasp escaped him. The motion was bittersweet for Claire—it hadn't been long ago that she had heard that same gasp, heard that same noise of relief, in a completely different set of circumstances as the feelings of pain were taken from her body, as well.

"I'm not always gonna be here to be your personal safety net," Claire warned him gently.

As she finally started in on him with some measure of force, she was forced to admit that maybe things had been more than she had realized. Peter was practically destroyed by this, and he was coping in the only way he could.

But she wouldn't let him go. He was her heart's brother, despite their true relationship and age difference, and it was her duty to look after him, both as his family and as Nathan's daughter. Peter was her responsibility, and she would do what she had to if it meant keeping him safe and free from harm— _all_ kinds of harm.

"I miss him," Peter said softly, voice trembling, the tears building in brown eyes and threatening to spill over.

"I know. Me, too," Claire whispered, pulling him in. It didn't matter that he was drenched in blood—her coat was black and it wouldn't show. Right now, they both needed comfort, and Claire would be the one to give it to him.

She didn't move as the young man broke down, his head on her shoulder as he cried, Claire's hands moving over his back, sticky with blood. She didn't care; blood was a stock in trade in her life. Peter was more important.

When it became clear that if they lingered, they would be noticed, Claire gently led Peter away by the hand, sitting with him in a nearby alleyway until he was finally done with a shuddering sniffle.

"You need to get cleaned up," Claire said quietly. "Do you have clothes back at Angela's penthouse?"

"Yeah," he replied. "It's not too far. We should be able to walk; public transportation could draw unwanted attention."

"Fine by me," she agreed with a nod. "I could use the fresh air. Let's go."

It took a while to make their way back, dodging cars as they jaywalked across busy streets, cutting through alleyways as shortcuts. It was fortunate that Angela's doorman was well-paid enough to not ask questions as they entered, aside from a quiet, "Sir, do you require emergency services?"

Peter simply smiled and shook his head. "That won't be necessary."

The man simply nodded, although looking a bit uncertain, but as Peter could walk unassisted, he felt no need to press the matter.

They snuck up to the roof for a while just to talk, having stealthily grabbed Peter's jacket from the entryway before they went. The two conversed for almost an hour, Claire calling West, and waiting together for the boy to show up. It was only after Peter had flown off that Claire went back down to say her goodbyes to her grandmother.

Angela was waiting for her in the living room, still clad in her wake attire. Her eyes looked slightly swollen, but Claire couldn't blame her—she had just lost a son and almost lost the other one. It had been a hard night for them all.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For helping Peter. I hate to think about what could have happened if you hadn't been there."

"Lucky I was, then," Claire said with a nod, walking toward the window, laying her forehead against the glass. Angela's near-silent approach behind her wasn't surprising; she knew that the woman would have more to say, in any case.

"I've alerted Rene to Sylar's return. Though, I suspect heavily that he had a hand in that, himself."

Claire tore her eyes away from the lighted skyline. "What do you mean, _he had a hand in that, himself?_ "

Angela's frown was fierce, but not exactly disapproving. "Rene was the one who told Peter about the storage center where Nathan's body was kept. He had to know the repercussions of that, Claire. The man is not a fool, and though I'm not sure what motivations he had for doing it, he did."

"Rene willingly released Sylar?" Claire's eyes lowered to the floor, her brow furrowed with confusion and anxiousness. "Why?"

"There's no way to know without asking him yourself," the woman answered, stepping up next to Claire and looking out at the city. "It could have been any number of things, though I would have to say that it would either be to eliminate him completely, or to return him to where he belongs."

"And where does he belong?" Claire asked bitterly, looking toward the starless sky. "He hasn't come back, Angela. I haven't seen him once. If he's not with me, then where is he, then? He obviously isn't with Noah, or I would know by now. Most likely, he's back to killing, and I know he said he wouldn't stop for me, but..."

Angela gave her a sympathetic look and a pat on the back of her hand, where it was clenched on the windowsill. "Sylar is a deeply conflicted man, Claire. You knew that. If he becomes a part of your life again, things will not be simple. The truth, at some point, will out." Thin lips pursed.

"You're dreaming again?" Claire asked.

She nodded once, sharply. "I am, of a great many things. The future is churning with possibilities, Claire. The path will be decided soon." She looked to her granddaughter with a pinched expression. "What you do will decide where you go, Claire. Where we _all_ go."

The girl's mouth dropped open slightly, and Claire gaped at her grandmother for a moment. "You're saying that the future is resting on _me?_ "

The woman's lips twitched slightly as she fought back a frown. "You and him both. What you choose to do, and what he chooses in response to your actions. It will set off a chain reaction."

"So, I'm a catalyst again," the blonde sighed. "Great." Claire shrugged helplessly before letting her hands pound against the wooden sill, nails digging into the skin of her palms until they were caked with blood. "Damn it, Angela. I just want a life where the world won't be resting on my shoulders. I want to be angry. I want to hate him. I want to be _allowed_ to hate him for all of this, for everything he's done to Peter and Nathan and you and my dad and mom and me and Noah. I don't blame Peter for wanting to kill him. Hell, part of me wants to make him scream, too, for all the things he's done."

"You have to let that go," Angela sighed. "Like I told Peter, revenge will only get you killed."

"Can't die," Claire answered. "What do I have to lose? I see nothing wrong with karma. I want him to _hurt,_ the way he hurt me. When he makes up all the time he's lost for me and for Noah, _then_ I will think about forgiving him."

"It wasn't his choice to leave you, Claire. In face, I hear from Matt Parkman that he tried his damnedest to get back, making the poor man's life hell."

The blonde scoffed. "Great. So, who else knows? Matt knows, Lydia knows, my mom knows—"

"Your mother?" Angela asked sharply. "Surely not."

"She's smarter than you give her credit for," the girl replied with a reproachful glare. "And she knows how to keep a secret. And her word."

The dark-haired woman turned away from the window with a sigh, walking toward a coffee table which still held a tray of champagne glasses from the wake. She picked one up, taking a long sip of the fizzy drink. "This secret is quickly becoming common knowledge, Claire. If we wait much longer, your father will find out on his own, and that will be a disaster. It is up to you to find the most appropriate time... and fill him in."

"I'm not ready for that yet."

"You will have to be. Things are coming to a standstill between those with abilities and those without. One of these days, the pin will drop, though the reason is yet to be decided. It could be wonderful or it could be terrible, depending on how ready we are to receive that future, and how prepared we are to direct the outcome to our favor. It will have to be carefully coordinated, but it _can_ be done."

"What does that have to do with my son?"

"It has _everything_ to do with your son." Intelligent brown eyes looked the blonde over. "He is to be the inheritor of the world, like the rest of our children. Do you want to give him a life of war and fear, or do you want to give him a life of openness and peace and trust? I know that you want the best for him, Claire, and to have that, we will need to shape the future. And to do that, we will need Noah Bennet on our side."

Claire nodded a bit in understanding—her father always _had_ been the man with a plan. If anyone would know what to do with a world of chaos, it would be him. But that still didn't answer—

"How is the world going to find out about us?"

Angela simply smiled behind her glass, taking another slow sip. Then, with a slight chuckle, she replied, "That's quite simple, Claire. You are going to _show_ them."

 

* * *

 

Sylar tore through Samuel's things like a man on a mission. Which he was, really. On a mission.

He wanted his answers. He didn't need Lydia for those, he already had her power—just the means to _get_ those answers. He needed a map of his own, and for that, he needed—

"Fresh out of ink," Samuel called, endlessly amused by Sylar's plight. Now that he knew that the man could do him no harm, he was pushing all of the buttons Sylar had so carefully shielded. He hinted at Sylar's past, but the younger could never get a straight answer out of him. That was when he turned to breaking things.

"You destroyed the last batch."

"Then make more," he demanded.

Samuel shrugged, a fierce smile on his face. "You want a tattoo?"

_I want answers._

"You want to find out where you're supposed to go next?"

_Yes._

"I say, you're already here."

_No._

"I don't think so," Sylar growled, giving the man a look.

"I know why you can't kill," Samuel said, his face serious, voice quiet. "Lydia told me everything."

He offset the sting of that statement by retorting, "I doubt she told you _everything_." _See what the wretch of a woman makes of that._

Samuel looked toward his fortuneteller with an unreadable expression before he continued. "You think people are lying manipulative bastards that are just trying to con you."

"Aren't _you?_ "

The Irish man frowned at him. "You're hurting. You need a friend."

Sylar scoffed, but his chest tightened. Never had he felt so alone in so many years, even when surrounded by people. Watching them all, watching them smile like they _belonged_ here made him ache with longing.

He wanted a place like that, where he could be accepted. Where he could be _loved._ And he knew that he had found that place once before—he just couldn't remember _where._

"Even though I tried to kill you?"

" _Especially_ because you tried to kill me." Samuel was staring him down with a sense of _knowing_ in his eyes that unnerved him. He hadn't felt so small, so confused, for a very long time. "You're not _special_ ; you're like everyone else."

That stung.

"We all need people who understand us, care for us." A pained expression crossed the man's face once he caught sight of a piece of paper, torn on the ground where Sylar had left it. He bent down and picked it up with a tender reverence that Sylar rarely saw, if he had ever seen it.

Samuel obviously loved the woman, he understood that. What he _didn't_ understand was why he couldn't remember her.

"No. She's out there," Samuel replied, when he'd asked. "I'm afraid she'll reject me, for who I am. For what I've done."

_He's like me._

Samuel stared _through_ him again. "That's the way you think, too. That no one could love you."

He was too right. It wasn't okay for him to know these things! What was it with these _Carnival_ people, taking one look at him and tearing out his best-kept secrets. "Stop pretending like you know who I am! You have _no idea._ "

"I know Hiro Nakamura said you're going to die alone, and it's haunting you." Samuel took a step toward him with that terrible, _terrible_ expression of complete understanding, of complete acceptance. "I know you... I _am_ you." He stood right before him, speaking directly to Sylar and allowing no distractions, no denial. "I'm not a good guy, but I'm not all bad, either. I found love and forgiveness and acceptance right here, and you can, too."

Sylar swallowed. _No, that can't be right. He can't be right._ He couldn't be. Not when he hadn't found the girl. Not when there were still so many questions yet to be answered. He couldn't let himself be trapped and tricked into staying here, damnit!

"If that's true," Sylar said slowly. "Let the tattoo show me, and I'll stay."

If the tattoo said this was where he should be, then this was where he should be. It wouldn't lie. But if it said he should go, then he would go, no loss.

It sounded fair, despite the tearing pain in his chest that he got when he thought of being here forever, of never finding _her._

Samuel gave him a surprised look and a quirked eyebrow.

"What?" Sylar snapped. "You afraid I might see something else?"

The man grinned, wide and amused and feral, like he had been granted a great treat. "I'm a carnie," the Irish man said. "I _live_ for games of chance."

Samuel backed away from Sylar, that infuriating grin still on his face as he picked up his overturned jar of dirt, crumbling it in his hands. "I'll have a new batch of ink mixed up in no time, brother. Feel free to wait here, if you want."

"I have questions," Sylar said with a frown.

"Ask away—though there's no guarantee I'll have an answer for you."

The younger man frowned, watching as Samuel measured out a portion of the dirt with his hands and putting it into a jar. He added what looked like a crushed leaf to the mixture, s well as some sort of blue-black paste.

"You know things about me. How?"

Samuel shrugged, smirking to himself even still as he worked. "Lydia sees things—"

"None of the things you said were what Lydia saw," Sylar replied. "I asked _how_."

"And how do you know that she didn't see them the last time you were here?"

Brown eyes darkened and a slight tingle went through the back of his mind. "Because you're lying. _Tell me._ "

"It's fascinating how you do that," Samuel chuckled. Sensing Sylar's growing irritation, he added, "You aren't the only one Lydia has read. There have been other people who know things about you."

"Like who?"

"I wouldn't know."

" _Lies._ "

The middle-aged man eyed the other speculatively. "You don't remember her, do you?"

Sylar's heart thudded. "Remember who?"

Samuel merely chuckled as he retrieved dusty bottle of water from where it was overturned on the ground. He poured it into the jar before he capped it off again, searching out a thin, tapered stick, with which he stirred the contents of the jar. "It's ready."

" _Who?_ "

Samuel's grin resurfaced with a vengeance. "Do you want your tattoo or not?"

Sylar scowled at him, but the carnie ignored the look.

"Shirt off. Stand over there."

Sylar obeyed the demands, realizing that he could always attempt to beat the answer out of him later if he really had to. Just because he couldn't kill didn't necessarily mean be couldn't _hurt_.

Samuel stirred the jar once more, turning to Sylar, who eyed the black-coated tool. Samuel frowned, eyeing the body before him like an artist would a canvas, unsure of where to start. Then, he stepped forward, and, using the crook of his thumb and forefinger like a guide, placed his tool directly over Sylar's heart.

The ink was cold and slightly prickly—unpleasant, really. It coiled slowly, spreading over his pectoral before it inched closer to his shoulder, unsure. He felt as it moved onto his upped arm and then to his back, trying to watch as it went. The ink blot was searching through him, through his memories, and he hated the thought of being so open. He tried to close himself off as best he could, but he found that the endeavor was impossible.

"What's it doing?" Sylar asked quietly.

"Stop thinking!" Samuel hissed. "Stop trying to force it."

Sylar gave in to the blot, and it, in turn, stopped being quite so unpleasant. While still slightly uncomfortable, the coldness had given way to a lukewarm substance, sliding smoothly instead of raising pinpricks of pain. It was tolerable, now, and perhaps if Sylar wasn't so hyper-aware of its movements, he wouldn't have noticed it at all.

"Just let it happen."

The ink skid down his right shoulder, creeping across his skin and finally coiling on his right forearm. It started to make, not just a shape, but what looked like...

...a face.

Sylar stared at it, lost in the memories that came flooding back with it.

Long curls, a beautiful face, and despite the monochrome of the tattoo, _he knew her eyes were green._

_Asking her to lie, listening to her refuse until she gave him what he wanted and more in the most glorious of ways. Finding her, months later and thousands of miles away, face streaked with tears and talking to herself as she dropped the bomb on him. Holding her in the Stanton Hotel, listening to her worries and dismissing them as silly, even as his heart sped in fear that they would be true._

_Living inside of Matt Parkman, holding his son, knowing that his own was somewhere in the world. Going through hell, through a mental war, just to get his own body back. Seeing glimpses, being just within reach as her name slipped away from him._

It wouldn't be slipping away again. Not this time.

"Well, isn't that interesting," Samuel mused.

The breath left Sylar in a rush. How many months had it been by now? How long had be been away from her, had he left her alone? Where was she? What was she doing?

_**But I love you!** _

Did she still love him?

"I guess you were wrong," Sylar said, voice shaking. He jolted when he realized he was still standing there, looking like a fool. "I don't belong here." He pulled his shirt on over his head as he practically ran from the Carnival.

_**Claire.** _

__

__

__


	12. He'll Never Know She's Lying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x15 "Pass/Fail"

Sylar watched her from outside her window as she entered the room.

How could he even _begin_ to go about this? The whole situation was one big train wreck, one thing after another crashing into each other until all that was left behind was the smoke.

She collapsed onto her bed, floral sheets rumpled as she rested her head near the end on a folded blanket. After a moment, her hand relocated to her stomach, spread over her thin shirt, as if she was wishing something was there.

She was so much more beautiful than any memory could do her justice. She'd cut her hair at some point, he noticed—it suited her. The juvenile cheerleader was gone, leaving a mature young woman in her place.

Sylar longed to go to her, to be with her, but he couldn't- not yet. He could leave her this one night of peace, because when she saw him again, there was sure to be hell. Her rage had always been something he admired in her, that single-minded conviction that she was right and everyone else was wrong. Now, though, it just made him anxious. If she got it in her head that she didn't want anything to do with him, she'd be sure to follow through.

But he still wanted nothing more than just _holding_ her as the tears started to well up in her eyes.

He left before he wouldn't be able to anymore.

 

* * *

 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The question startled Claire out of the mindless stirring of her oatmeal. "About what?"

The sympathetic look she received garnered a warm, thankful feeling, but also one of avoidance. She didn't want to get Gretchen involved in these things.

"Life among the carnies? The death of your father? I mean, either one of those would be enough to mess _me_ up."

Claire laughed softly, a wry smile twisting her lips. "I don't think I'd know where to start. I just..." She sighed. "I think it's one of those things I just have to figure out by myself."

She _wanted_ to let Gretchen help. God knew that the girl was there for her when she really needed it, always had been, _trying_ to understand, even when she couldn't. She wanted the best for Claire, and the blonde appreciated that—but these things were dangerous. And Gretchen was... fragile.

The hurt look she received in response was almost enough to make her cave. But Claire was a strong girl. She could survive it.

Someday soon, Gretchen would be able to understand everything. _Then_ she could choose if she _really_ wanted to stand by Claire.

"Listen, I'm not going to pretend to know what you're going through right now," Gretchen said. "But I want you to know that I'm here for you. If you need anything... anything at all."

Her hand was covering Claire's.

The gesture startled the blonde—she hadn't been expecting contact, wasn't used to it from anyone but Peter or her father, and neither were present. For Gretchen to offer it so freely was uncomfortable, especially when Claire wasn't sure what the other was intending by it. That, and the walls always had eyes.

Sylar could be anywhere.

"I, uh," Claire started, feeling terrible as she pulled her hand away, but doing it all the same. "Have this review-lesson thing."

She tried to ignore the slump of Gretchen's shoulders that she could see from the corner of her eye.

"They moved it to Bapst Hall. I have _no_ idea where that is."

"East quad," Gretchen replied with a tiny smile. " _Clear_ across campus."

Claire let out a sarcastic laugh; nothing could go her way today, could it? "Of _course_ it is."

She picked up her bag and set out, leaving Gretchen and her scribbled-on flash cards behind. She had to hurry, or she was going to be late.

Claire was too distracted to notice the dual sets of eyes that followed her as she left. She never saw the man that stood when she had gone, approaching her roommate with a quiet, "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

Never saw the shake of the brunette's head and her trademark friendly smile.

Sylar slid into the seat next to the girl, watching her carefully as he set down the tray he'd picked up, reaching for his foam-lined cup of coffee. "Sorry to bother you like this, but it's pretty full in here."

The girl shrugged, still smiling. "It's no problem. I don't mind the company." She reached over, clearing her flash cards away to make room for him. "So, what's your name, stranger?"

"Gabriel," he answered, fighting the reflexive urge to claim _Sylar_. However, the best lies were the ones closest to the truth, and he doubted that Claire would have told the girl his _real_ name, if she had told her about him at all.

"Gretchen," she offered. "I haven't seen you around here before."

"That's not surprising, I live off campus," Sylar replied. "I usually have things to do in the mornings. I found my schedule unexpectedly clear this morning, decided to come in a little early." He took a sip from the bitter caffeinated brew before he set it back down. "That girl who left—is she your roommate?"

"Yeah, she had to hit a review session. Midterms, you know?" Gretchen gestured to the flash cards that were strewn over the table and he nodded in understanding.

He observed her silently for a moment; they bore an uncanny resemblance, he noticed. Brown hair, brown eyes, tall, pale. A shared love of dark-tinted clothing. Even similar names—he wasn't sure whether he should be flattered or annoyed with Claire's tendencies toward the consistent.

"So, what's your major?"

Her question startled him slightly; he realized he'd been staring. "Neuroscience."

Gretchen grinned. "Smarty-pants. I was Art History, but I switched over to Biology."

_Interesting._ "What made you change?"

The girl's smile suddenly turned more private, but no less prominent. "I got interested in genetics."

_So she knows._ _I wonder just how much._

Sylar leaned forward slightly, head tilted. "Genetics is a fascinating subject."

"I know," she replied happily. "I mean, just the _thought_ of evolution is inspiring. There's so much that could change about humans—there's so many directions our species could go. I mean, just _imagine_ that there are whole groups of people who are already there—it's amazing."

His eyes narrowed slight as he replied, "You should be careful about who you speak of that to. Evolution can be a sore topic for some people."

Gretchen leaned back in her seat, a teacup in hand. "I guess, but even the hyper-religious will have to wake up _sometime_."

"I'm not talking about that," Sylar practically growled.

The girl blinked, inspected him carefully, and the grin fell from her face. "You're one of _them_ , aren't you?"

Sylar stood abruptly, put off by just how _perceptive_ this girl was. If he didn't know better, he might have said that she had an ability, too. But, no; she just had a talent of reading people. She would never understand what it was to be different.

"I didn't mean to offend you," the brunette girl said quietly.

"I have to go."

She sighed, looking down at her flash cards, and Sylar took that moment to slide her bag from the table, swiftly walking away.

Gretchen looked up, but the mysterious man had gone.

"Hey, where did my bag go?"

 

* * *

 

Bapst Hall was pretty, Claire supposed, as she climbed the long flight of stairs. The moldings were antique, the light fixtures were likely well-restored or rewired replicas of the originals. She wondered how she'd never had a class here before—and why no one else seemed to, either. The place was empty.

As she entered the room, she noticed only one person—a man, his back turned to her, as he wrote on a chalk board.

"Excuse me," she said quietly. "Is this Professor Yanno's review session?"

"Nope. Study group."

She froze. She _knew_ that voice.

Sylar turned, flipping over the blackboard, where the words _Why Claire Bennet_ were scrawled a hundred times over in an almost obsessive manner. "Ready to brainstorm?"

He tossed his chalk at her, the clatter as it hit the floor the only sound in her stunned silence.

Then, "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Her eyes were wide and she was stunned. _Damn Angela for not telling me that it would be so soon,_ Claire thought.

"I came to learn."

Green eyes flickered up, landing on a security camera in the corner. _Not again. I can't even be angry properly. Knowing my dad, he'll have the feed running straight to his apartment._

"No. Leave, _now_ ," Claire snarled.

"Can't do that," he answered, frowning at her.

Rage made her fist clench around the strap of her messenger bag, a white-knuckled grip that she wished she could use to just _punch him_ or something. Anything was better than this... this _normalcy_.

"Do you know how much I would _love_ to kill you?" Claire snapped.

Pain flickered across the man's face, gone in an instant as he stepped toward the window, bracing himself on it. "Listen... I know you must hate me—"

"You killed my father!"

He looked back at her, unusually somber—if this was any other time, he could have given her some cutting remark, but no. He had to realize that things were different this time. "Nathan." He paused, his eyes locked on her. "Seems like a lifetime ago. But I'm a little off my game, and you're gonna help me get it back."

_Off his—if he thinks I'm going to help him kill again, he's crazy,_ Claire thought. _No matter who he is, no matter what we are. I won't do it._ "Says who?"

His expression tightened, and he pulled up his sleeve, exposing a swirl of black and gray that almost looked like— "Says this," he snapped. "Your face showing up in ink wasn't my choice. It's _destiny—_ " Claire could see _exactly_ what he thought of that statement in the sneer that curled his lip. "—showing me my desire."

He was moving slowly, unthreateningly, and she knew that he was trying to prove something—she just didn't know what. The fact that she had shown up in ink on his body was... disconcerting, to say the least. _Baffling_ , if she was honest, despite the fact that she knew he had once meant everything to her. Now, she couldn't remember what she had wanted to say—she was just running on the rage and betrayal and loneliness, working it out of her system in the only way she knew how.

"And you _actually_ thought that I would..."

"Relax," he said quietly, leaning back against the desk near the chalkboard. "They told me I need a connection... a friend."

She stared at him, struck silent. He had come to _her_ for that connection, expecting forgiveness? How was she supposed to do that? He had broken his promise, had left her alone, had hurt her in ways she never thought she even _could_ be hurt. He hadn't been lying, that night of the Primatech fire, when he said that the only thing they could be hurt by was a broken heart.

"I don't want to be alone," he continued softly. "And, somehow, you're supposed to help me."

She was hurt, she was confused, she wanted to lash out, and there were still cameras. While it seemed that _he_ wasn't thinking about that, she still had a reputation to uphold, and she had no idea who was watching their interaction at this very moment, or who would in the future.

"I wouldn't help you if my life depended on it," she practically whispered.

_Anger._ "It's not _your_ life you should be concerned about." He inclined his head to the side, both pairs of eyes lingering on a lone backpack, a white ribbon tied onto the strap.

Claire recognized it immediately. " _Gretchen._ " _That he would **dare** to take her, after everything, and still expecting my forgiveness! _ Claire's lip curled and she bared her teeth at him, fists clenching as he shot her a tiny smirk.

"So," Sylar said. "About that statement..."

Claire stormed over to one of the tables, sitting heavily in the chair and dropping her bag onto the table in front of her. "Let's get this over with," she huffed, still in a frustrated rage. "You don't have to hurt Gretchen." _She's my only friend, and if you kill her, Sylar, I swear to god, I will never let you see your son, **ever.**_

She glared at him with all the viciousness she could muster, hoping to convey that she would put him out of his misery _herself_ if he hurt her friend.

"I promise, you will see her again as soon as you help me answer my question. Here is what I've been thinking..." he drew a frame for an outline with another piece of chalk, scrawling a tiny _C_ and _S_ as the title headings. "You and me."

And, _no_ , her chest did not just tighten at that. She rolled her eyes as her only outward expression—she would _not_ let hi know how she was feeling. And she had a feeling that she'd heard the rant he was about to give at _least_ once before.

"We've got a lot in common. We're both adopted..." He wrote the word on the side, accentuated by identical check marks in both columns. "Abandoned by parents that didn't want us and raised by parents who didn't understand us."

"My parents understand me _just_ fine," Claire growled. _Better than you do, apparently._

"Stop lying to yourself," he snapped in return.

Claire scowled.

"Both of our dads were cold-blooded killers, which is ironic, because you and I cannot be killed." He scrawled that on the board too, along with another set of matching checks. Claire's eyes flickered to her bag, where a pencil had partially fallen out when it hit the table. On a whim that she was sure her _cold-blooded killer_ of a father would be proud of, she slipped it into her sleeve.

"I get it, okay? We have a few... _arbitrary_ things in common," Claire sighed. "What is your _point?_ "

He frowned incredulously, taking a step toward her, leaning forward onto the edge of her table. "My point is, they're not _arbitrary_. They're _formative._ The basic building blocks of our lives. And we have the _same blocks._ " He straightened. "And yet, here we are—content college co-ed..." Sylar opened his arms wide in a puzzled shrug. "..and _me._ " His voice went quiet as he leaned onto the table once more, his eyes softening as he stared at her, gaze unwavering as he asked, "How did we end up so different?"

Claire stood, mimicking his pose with a scowl. "You want to know what the difference is?" She asked softly, her tone dropping dangerously low. He frowned. "You're a _psychopath_." She shrugged sarcastically, somehow pleased with herself, despite knowing that she was being cruel—not that he didn't deserve it. "Mystery solved."

She turned on her heel to walk away, managing only a few steps before telekinesis hit her like a train, shoving her forward and down into a small lounge chair that was off to the side of the room. And then, Claire realized, that she had fucked up. Maybe she should have taken this more seriously.

This wasn't about her. This was about him, and it was about everybody else.

"You think this is a game?" Sylar snarled. "This is my _life._ You're supposed to _help_ me. Or don't you care how many fillets I slice your..." he paused, searching for a certain word, betrayal finally flashing over his face as he continued. "... _roommate_ into?"

Why did that expression hurt so much? Claire wasn't guilty of anything. _He was the one who had been gone!_

"If you're not going to contribute," he continued, stepping closer to where she was held down. "I'll just have to take the answers from your head."

_Great. That again._ "You're going to slice my head open again?"

"I've evolved _way_ beyond that."

_Oh, okay. Sylar 2.0. Much better._

"Our friend Lydia gave me a much more precise could read someone just by touching them." His leg brushed against hers where they hung over the arm of the chair, one arm braced on the back, the other beside her head as he leaned over her.

Claire tried not to lose control of the beat of her heart.

She failed.

"See into the very _depths_ of their soul."

That voice was making her brain go fuzzy. _That's not fair,_ she thought before she could stop it. _No! Cameras. Damn it, Sylar, cameras._

"Of course, her methods were a little hyper-erotic, but..."

_What?_ He did _not_ just imply what she thought he did. Claire was going to have to talk to Lydia. Assuming, of course, that the woman was still alive. _And if she is... not for long._

Sylar's eyes dropped to Claire's lips, where they lingered for a moment. Green eyes flickered to _his_ mouth and back on reflex, and that, apparently, was encouragement enough for him. "But, what the hell." His hand stroked her cheek, tender and reverent. "It is college, isn't it?"

_Oh, hell no,_ Claire thought desperately. _Don't do this. Please don't do this._ She fought as hard as she could, but he was stronger, always had been. His hand cupped the back of her head and he pulled her up, ignoring her last-ditch struggles as he pressed his mouth against hers.

A muffled whimper escaped her when his lips pressed more insistently, demanding some sort of response. She didn't _want_ to respond. She still wanted him to _hurt_ , wanted him to _pay—_ but she had been longing for this for months, and her body wouldn't deny him what her mind would. Muscle memory and instinct kicked in, and her lips parted. Slender fingers tangled in dark hair, tugging him closer, demanding more contact.

A low rumble escaped his chest as their tongues met and tangled, as she finally gave in, and his senses were flooded with her memories.

_The tears that escaped her eyes as she watched a fire devour his likeness. Feeling such **hatred** for Nathan, the man who killed him, and not being able to say a word. Receiving his ashes and releasing them to the waves on the beach where they had stood together so many months before. Terrible, gaping feelings of loneliness, only tempered by the love she felt for the tiny being that was silently growing inside of her._

_Arriving at college, lost and confused, torn by her choice, the **only** choice, of leaving her son— **their** son—behind. Meeting a girl so eerily reminiscent of him, becoming friends with her and trying not to compare them, but it was so hard. They were too similar, and it hurt her, so she pushed the girl away, despite it being the closest to home she had felt in a long time._

_Endless grief at the loss of her father, anger at those who had betrayed her, **known** and had done so, anyway. Responsibility for Peter, who she loved like a brother, but looked out for like a son. _

_Sadness that stretched across her consciousness like a void, from the loss she had felt for all this time, but wasn't real. A vortex of emotions that she couldn't categorize, , because he broke his promises, because he wasn't there, and **why wasn't he there? Was she not enough? Did he forget about her? Didn't he care about their baby? Didn't he love her, even if he had never said it?**_

_**Just when everything was starting to get straightened out, why did it have to be a lie?** _

Sylar tore away like he had been burned.

Now that he knew they were there, he could see every single emotion in her, the anger, the sadness, the betrayal. He had never considered, through all of this, that she would be this hurt by losing him. He never thought that she was lashing out because she was left with no other options.

It never occurred to him that she might have been trying to move on.

"Just tell me where she is," Claire said quietly, looking like she was about to cry. He hated that, hated her, hated _Gretchen._

She was supposed to have been his.

"Claire Bennet," he said quietly. "You've been holding out on me."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, voice trembling.

He sat on a chair beside her, watching her carefully, mapping every inch of the guilt and torture and confusion in her face. "Why I was supposed to find you. You and I are the same."

"I am _nothing_ like you."

It hurt. She had only ever done the right thing. She had sacrificed herself for the sake of their son, because he had deserted them.

"You do exactly what I do," he murmured. "You use this gift, this _curse_ , whatever this is, to build walls, make it impossible to actually connect with another person." He leaned forward, and despite the acute, terrible _pain_ that overtook him, he realized that if he couldn't have her, that didn't mean that someone else shouldn't.

After all the misery he had put her through, she deserved to be happy, even if it killed him.

"Like Gretchen."

A soft gasp escaped the girl at that. Meanwhile, he was coming up with a plan—he could make a point to her and still get what he needed, he would just have to be careful. But it could be done, and he would.

"God, all those memory hits I got from your stuff while I was tying her up... have such a different context now. Everything in that room is so full of... _pauses._ "

"What did you say?" Claire asked, her eyes on him.

"Pauses," he repeated. "All these moments so ripe with _subtext._ 'Can I borrow your book?' 'Cut my hand with these scissors.'" He swallowed, staring straight back at her.

_Why did it have to be Claire Bennet?_

"All these interactions, and you _still_ can't say the one thing you really _want_ to say to this girl."

A soft, shuddering breath wracked her body, and he wasn't quite sure if she was in as much pain as he was, or if she was just panicking at the thought that she was getting _relationship advice_ from a man like him.

"Heck, you keep this up, you might end up alone forever, too."

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

That defensive snarl was so purely _Claire._ It gave away so much more than she realized, and it showed him what she was really feeling. She was angry, she was scared, she was _confused,_ but, above all, she knew he was right.

"I think I do," he murmured, reaching out to lay his hand over her leg, fingers against denim.

Just like the first time, all over again.

"The Indestructible Girl who can't put herself out there to get hurt."

He laughed bitterly at that, looking away from her, simply because he didn't think that he _could_ look at her anymore. Not when he knew that he was letting go of the one thing he had fought so hard for. Of the one thing he had tried to _live_ for.

She deserved a life of peace and quiet and happiness with whoever chose.

And their son deserved a father that was much more a man than him.

 

* * *

 

Her heart was racing, beating out of her chest, tearing apart into a thousand pieces as she _ran_.

She was broken, she was whole, _she didn't know what the hell she was,_ but she knew it hurt and she wanted to cry and she was relieved and wanted to scream and laugh and throw things and punch holes in her wall, but right now, she had to save Gretchen.

She she ran.

"Gretchen?" She exclaimed, tearing open the door to their room, seeing their things misplaced and the girl tied to an overturned chair with a bandana covering her mouth. "Gretchen, are you okay?" She pulled the blue scrap of fabric away and started working on the ropes.

"I'm fine, all things considered," she replied shakily.

"I'm so sorry," Claire said. "This is all my fault. You never should have gotten caught up in it."

"I'm just..." Gretchen started, pulling the blonde into a hug. "I'm happy that you're here. And that it's over."

The lights flickered and went dead.

"...it _is_ over, isn't it?"

"No..." Claire sighed. "He's not done—" _making my life a miserable living hell._

And then the window exploded, sending glass shrapnel everywhere that she was surprised didn't kill someone. How ironic.

"We have to go," the blond whispered. "Now. _Move._ "

The two girls scrambled to their feet, heading out into the hallway, away from the remains of their destroyed room.

"Somewhere out in the open?" The brunette asked.

"No. He'll be expecting that," Claire replied in frustration. "He's trying to flush us out."

"How do you know?"

A heavy sigh escaped the green-eyed blonde. "'Cause apparently I get the way he thinks."

"Someone's coming!"

Claire's eyes settled on a maintenance closet- the door pushed open as she turned the handle. "In here." They crammed into the darkened space, sinking to the floor in and identical cross-legged sit. Gretchen was toying with the bandana, and Claire started wondering if the girl might just give up on her now after the _third_ attempt on her life by super-powered psychopaths.

Though Sylar, admittedly, was on a level of his own.

"So, Sylar, huh? _The_ Sylar?"

Claire couldn't remember that she had ever told Gretchen about him, but, what the hell. She must have, at some point in her gruesome life's history.

"Yes. Well, no. Kind of the emo-apologist version," she amended. "He's had me trying to figure out what his issues are."

"Seriously?" Gretchen ashed incredulously. "How'd that go?"

Claire made a face. "Pencil in the eye."

The girl winced.

"Listen, I'm sorry."

Gretchen shrugged a bit. "It's okay. Getting used to being all _Perils of Pauline._ "

"No, not about that," Claire sighed. "Well, yes, about that, but... about breakfast. About sometimes keeping you at arm's length."

Gretchen nodded with a tiny smile. "It's cool. Are you kidding? If you don't want to..."

"I _do_ want to. I just... I'm scared. And I get afraid that I'm gonna get hurt." _And that I'm gonna get close and then lose you, too._ "And so I use my _specialness_ to build these walls, instead of jumping off bridges... I suck at metaphors. But what I'm trying to say is that..."

"It's okay," Gretchen soothed quietly. "Really."

"No. No, it's not." She sniffled, forcing back her frustrated emotions before they could transform into the crying fit that was desperate and sure to burst forth. "This guy, Sylar..." _You don't know the whole story. You don't know what he's done to me. You can't imagine how alike you two are, and it scares me to death, because I care about him even though I don't want to, and I care about you, too._

"He sat there and told me that we're very much alike, and he's not wrong. And I'm afraid that I'm going to end up alone for the rest of my life, like him. _And I don't know how to fix it._ "

Gretchen gave her a tiny smile. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Claire nodded a little bit. "I like to think of myself as just a girl who just _happens_ to have powers, and it's just one thing in a list of attributes. Loyal, friendly, regenerative, good skin, you know?"

"You do have good skin."

Claire snorted. "But when you put the chips down and life gets tough, I hide behind that _one_ label, that _one_ attribute, and I close myself off."

Claire looked down at the grimy tiled floor, avoiding looking at Gretchen in the dark, which had always ripped away her secrets. If Sylar wasn't so _infuriating_ , maybe she could have talked to him like this. If he hadn't known what buttons to push, like he always had. If he hadn't known how to make her give in to her emotional side, instead of her thoughtful side.

But maybe... maybe she had been a little bit harsh. Maybe she had been unfair.

But it was too late for that, now.

"Man, no wonder Sylar is so messed up," Claire whispered. "I can only imagine what having a bunch of... _excuses_ could do to someone's humanity."

"Maybe that's his answer," Gretchen said softly, distant, pensive, hollow. "In order to become human again, he has to get rid of all of his powers."

Claire swallowed. "Yeah, maybe," she admitted. _But he would never do that. His powers are what make him_ _ **Sylar**_ _._

Gretchen looked at Claire with an expression like the blonde had never seen on her usually cheerful friend's face. And, before her eyes, that face began to shift, to change into the very man she had been running from, had been talking about, and her world caved in.

"You son of a bitch," she breathed. "Where is she?"

Sylar tilted his head as he considered. "It's dinner time... I imagine she's right where you left her."

Claire's mouth popped open a little, staring at him incredulously. He wasn't smiling, wasn't smirking. There was no telltale smug expression that he had when he was messing with her. He was serious. "You never took her."

A short, somber shake of the head. "Like I said," he said, voice quiet. "I've been having a little trouble being myself." He offered her the bandana.

Claire looked at it, then back at him, for some reason feeling what was left of her heart sink into her ribcage and glue itself inside her stomach. She took the fabric from him without a word, and he simply sat there for a moment, staring at her as if he was studying every inch of her face, attempting to commit it to memory. Then, silently, he stood and opened the door, walking into the hallway without so much as a _goodbye._

Claire stared after him for a second until she scrambled to her feet, stunned by the sudden light after so long. "Sylar!"

He paused, not bothering to turn and simply looking over his shoulder.

"You're leaving?" She asked, voice so quiet that it was nearly silent.

He nodded.

"Just like that?"

He turned his face away, his back still toward her as he put his hands in his pockets. "Yes, Claire," he whispered, words echoing in the otherwise silent hall. "Just like that."

"But—"

"Claire," he said firmly. Then, seemingly without a cause, his shoulders slumped, head ducking slightly. "Take care of Noah."

He walked away. And this time, when Claire tried to follow, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

She had followed his advice.

That was good—he knew she would, but it was still good. She would make friends when she could have a normal life. She would have a real relationship without complications or lies. Bennet would love Gretchen, he knew that already. She was everything he was not, and she had never hurt Claire and never would.

_Talking's good. In fact, I could use some talking if you still have a sympathetic ear._

_I, in fact, have **two** ears._

And maybe Gretchen wouldn't be the one, but she was still better than anything Sylar could have offered.

As for him... it was time for a change.

Time to set things right.

_Goodbye, Claire._


	13. The Lies of a Preacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x16 "The Art of Deception"

It was much easier to trick Janice Parkman than he thought it would be.

For a woman who had seemed intelligent in his memories, she was surprisingly trusting, especially knowing what her husband was. Had it been anyone else, he might have not been able to get away with a lie and some half-assed stories, but Janice was a sucker for her son, and all it took was a demonstration of how much Sylar knew about him, and she was eating out of the palm of his hand.

Then all he had to do was wait.

Going to Matt Parkman seemed the obvious choice. Out of everyone who had abilities, he was the only one who potentially had the power to take those abilities away. That, and he had a strong moral compass—he somehow managed to be a family man, and Sylar wanted to know _how_.

Because maybe, with a great deal of time and patience and insistent, undeniable proof that _he could be more,_ he would at least be able to apologize to Claire properly. To hold his son, if only once. If Matt Parkman could be a good person, a _good man,_ then surely so could he.

"Janice, honey, you home? Janice?"

Perfect.

He came up behind Parkman, nearly laughing as the man stumbled under the weight of an armful of groceries. How... _domestic._

"Wow. Haven't you ever heard of making two trips?"

"Oh, God," was the whispered response. "Are you back inside my head?"

He _did_ laugh, that time. "That's _so_ two months ago." Knowing that Janice was in the other room and he had to keep up his carefully-made image, he added, "Here, let me give you a hand."

The dumbfounded look he received was almost worth the trouble of flying all the way to California. It _would_ be worth it if Parkman gave him what he wanted. "Calm down, Parkman. If I wanted you _dead,_ we wouldn't be talking."

"Then what the hell _do_ you want?" The man asked.

Sylar frowned, the dark humor draining from his voice. "It's complicated. My life's taken a turn since our time together. I suppose you could say I'm on a fact-finding mission."

Light, rapid footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor behind them. "Matt, honey," Janice greeted with a smile.

"Janice, hey. I thought you'd be at work by now," Parkman replied in surprise.

"Well, I took Matty to day care, my client cancelled, so lucky I was home, because your friend Gabriel was in the neighborhood." The woman puttered, setting things on the kitchen table as Sylar walked behind her, shooting Parkman a smirk over his shoulder as he set the groceries on the shelf. "He is _full_ of stories."

"Stories?" Matt echoed, voice hollow and confused.

_Don't hurt yourself, Parkman. I wouldn't dare to let her in on our little secrets._ "From when we were partners on the force," he cut in easily.

Matt's expression was a mixture of unimpressed and incredulous, mostly colored with tones of _why am I not surprised he'd come up with a bullshit story like that?_

"So I figured you guys would like to catch up, so I put a little late lunch together," Janice finished with a smile.

Sylar gave the woman a nod and a slight smile. "Looks _so_ good, thank you. Parkman!" The man twitched. "Take a load off, have a nosh... we really need to catch up."

The flabbergasted stare was almost worth it.

Almost.

 

* * *

 

"It's over. I don't need to tell him."

"You kind of do! A super-powered serial killer shape-shifted into a co-ed and then made a pie chart of your life."

Claire struggled for words, but she couldn't deny the truth of that statement. Well, aside from... "It wasn't a pie chart. It was more like a..." She gestured in a wide t-shape with her hand.

"Whatever! You _have_ to tell your dad."

_I don't **have** to do anything. _ "Really?" Claire snapped. "'Cause when Sylar killed my real dad, he didn't tell me!" She let her head slam into the car window in frustration. Maybe if she just put her head through it now, she would be spared the pain of being chewed out by Bennet.

Gretchen sighed. "I know. You're right, but... you..."

"I know, I know," Claire sighed. She prattled on for a moment until she was distracted by Gretchen taking hold of her hand, and this time, she didn't pull away.

"Do you want me to come with?"

Claire considered it for a long moment, her eyes meeting Gretchen's, which were concerned and caring. "Yes... no. This is something I have to do alone." _I don't want to pull you into the nuclear fallout of this one, too._

"I could wait?" The brunette asked it like a question.

"It's probably gonna be a while," Claire sighed. "The list of things we have to talk about—Sylar, the cover-up of my dad's death; let's not forget about the Carnival. I'm sure there's _plenty_ my dad's been wanting to say about that." _And about Noah._

"Yeah... well, good luck. You're gonna feel better when it's all over with. Or, if not, at least you'll be caffeinated."

They shared a short laugh before Claire crawled out of the car, nervous as hell with butterflies crawling around in her stomach, throwing a fit and demanding that she leave, run as fast as she could in the other direction. Telling Noah about, well, _Noah_ had not been on her list of things to do today, but the opportunity presented itself, she had time, and it _was_ time. Her son would be four months old in a few days, and her father had never even known she was _pregnant._

She was prepared for anything.

She was _not_ prepared for _Lauren_ to be waiting in her father's apartment, acting for all intents and purposes like she had committed a crime. She didn't expect to be shown pictures of a town that Samuel had put in a hole with over two hundred people dead. She didn't expect her father to turn his back on what he said and dive headfirst into the very things he said he'd given up.

She didn't expect to be so sickened by all the _lies_ that she would make up one of her own and get out of the apartment as fast as she could.

Claire certainly didn't expect to need to return to the Carnival.

"This is gonna end badly," Claire ranted to Gretchen later, practically on a warpath, herself. "Samuel is crazy, my dad's gonna take him down, and there is _no way_ this is gonna end well!"

She looked to Gretchen for support, but found no sympathy in her friend's— _girlfriend's? Was she even that?—_ eyes. " _What?_ What do you want me to say?"

Claire stared as she turned her back. "Well... what do you think I should do?"

Gretchen sat heavily on her bed with a sigh. "I don't know. You've got a _Humanities_ lecture in twenty minutes. Here's a crazy idea—maybe you should actually go to _class_ , for once."

The blonde's mouth popped open in incredulity and frustration. _Did she really just say that to me? I can't believe this!_ "Did you hear _anything_ I just said?"

"I did. Yeah, all of it," the brunette replied, giving the blonde a bored look. "But, I mean, what are you really gonna do, Claire? Your dad was right about the Carnival. You never should have gone there."

_I'll support you, no matter what?_

"Samuel is a bad guy, yes, but the rest of the Carnival is all _family_ and _children_. And they just want to live their lives being open about their abilities!"

"I thought you said that they were giving Samuel his power."

"But they don't know that."

"You were only there for one day," Gretchen replied with a frown. "How could you possibly know for sure?"

_Damn her and those condescending looks! She didn't spend time there with them like I did. She doesn't know what she's talking about!_

Claire was frustrated out of her mind. After thinking that she and Gretchen were compatible, this was turning out to be a disaster. The girl was negative and patronizing and superior, even when it was _Claire_ that really knew what she was talking about, not the other way around. Claire was the one with the ability. Claire was the one who had gotten to know them. Claire was the one who had lived there, seen firsthand what life among them was like.

Not Gretchen.

So could do this on her own.

"I need to borrow your car," Claire said simply, reaching for Gretchen's keys on the bedside table.

"No!"

Claire froze, scowling at the girl. "I thought you would back me up on this!"

Gretchen returned the look. "You say you want a normal life, right? Just let your dad handle it. Come on, _please_. Just come to class with me."

How could she even think like that? When lives were being threatened, when people were being killed, _when Claire couldn't get hurt_ and could get right in the middle and sort everything about, and Gretchen wanted her to play content co-ed?

That just wasn't who she was. She had to get involved, had to make a difference. That was her _job._ That was her _life._

"Or not," Gretchen muttered under the force of Claire's unwavering glare. "Bring it back full," she added as the girl walked out, still glaring over her shoulder and slamming the door behind her.

Claire got into the car with a silent snarl, throwing the car into drive as she followed the direction the compass pointed from its place on the dash.

If Gretchen wasn't going to help, she could do this herself.

_Sylar would never have made me go alone. Hell, he would have offered to take out Samuel **for** me._

With an angry noise, she slammed her hand onto the button for the radio, turning it up full blast to a pulsing beat.

This was going to be a long drive.

 

* * *

 

When Parkman was riled, he was _so_ easy to get a one-up on.

And Sylar loved to push buttons.

But once they were in the basement, it was back to business. He was here for a reason, after all, and while he didn't expect it to be easy to convince him, he would find a way to do it.

He had to.

"You're on a _fact-finding mission_? What the hell does that mean?"

"I had to make sure I remembered it right," Sylar replied, eyes scanning the room, which was unfinished concrete, floor littered with various power tools. "Husband... and father."

Matt's blood ran cold. So he had been right.

"You've really figured out a way to live with your ability. You know, you may not believe this, but in some ways, you're actually stronger than I am."

Standing face-to-face with a man like Parkman was not intimidating. However, standing face-to-face with a man who could manipulate your every thought, who hated your guts and you were about to ask them for help? It was a bit... unsettling.

"Look, I'm not afraid of you, okay?" _Lie._ "So if this is about revenge—"

"Well, after what you did to me, I _was_ tempted," Sylar replied simply. "But... I don't want to be that person anymore."

"Uh-huh," Matt snorted sarcastically.

Sylar scowled at him. "I need you to go inside my head again."

Matt burst into laughter. "You're serious? Oh, _wow_ , you _are_ insane."

Walking around Sylar, the other froze, spinning in place. "If I _am_ , it's because that's what my powers have made me. I _can't_ live with them anymore, Parkman. So you need to take them away." _Take them away from me so I can never hurt anyone ever again. I don't want to be a monster. I don't want to be alone._

Parkman, who until that point had been facing away, turned back in surprise. "You want me to—you— _how_ am I supposed to do that?"

Sylar shrugged helplessly, honestly beyond the point of caring, so long as they were gone. "You can create a mental block. Repress them. I don't really care, to be honest." He held Matt's gaze steadily, unblinking. "All I know is that once I'm free from the temptation of my ability..."

"Mm-hm," Matt said with a short nod. "You're gonna be _normal?_ I'm sorry. That ship sailed, what, fifty murders ago?"

That stung. Mostly because it was true, and Parkman _knew_ it was true. Damn it, why did all these people have to know what was going on inside of his head? Why did they have to know the truth? Why couldn't Parkman just realize that, while he had made bad, even _terrible_ decisions, that he wasn't entirely to blame and that he could still change?

Sylar's eyes narrowed. "I'm asking nicely." The threat was obvious.

"The last time that I was inside your head, you turned my life into a living _hell_ ," Parkman spat. "What makes you think I'm gonna risk that?"

"Janice," Sylar said, raining one finger, following it with another. "And the kid."

Matt eyed him with a frustrated, helpless look.

"I really _do_ want to change," Sylar repeated, holding his fingers up to his temple. "But I'm _insane,_ remember? And all I have to do is _point._ "

The former cop shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze. "Fine! I will _try,_ " Parkman growled. " _But_ you have to let Janice go."

_He's negotiating for her safety. He knows that I'm the one in power... it can't hurt. The less people around, the better._

Sylar nodded slightly. "Consider it a gesture of good faith."

He stayed still as Parkman hurried upstairs, likely to distract the woman with something or another.

_Will I ever be fixed?_ He thought helplessly. _Will I ever be able to have even **half** of what he has? A true home? Maybe Samuel was right. Maybe I should have just stayed at the Carnival. Anything would have been less painful than this. Anything._

Sylar waited before he followed, cresting the stairs just as Matt asked Janice to run to the store for something or another. The woman had agreed, grabbing her keys from where they sat by the door. She then headed out, but not before kissing her husband goodbye and offering Sylar a small smile.

Once she was gone, he spoke up. "Alright, Parkman. I did my part—I let Janice walk. Now, it's your turn."

"I know," he breathed. "I know. I said I would try."

Parkman stood in front of him, obviously nervous, hesitating for a long moment before he lay his hand against Sylar's temple. The buzz of his power resonated through both minds, still attuned from their extensive amount of time that they had been melded. At first, he thought it would work. Parkman's power was working its was slowly inward, closer to the part of his brain where Sylar knew the powers were stored. However, once he was there, he hit a wall- the head-splitting frequency was enough to cause an instant migraine, the distraction more than enough to make Matt lose his focus and force him out.

The man groaned in pain, doubled over as he struggled to come to an internal balance. Sylar grimaced, frowning. "Nothing's changed."

Parkman stood straight, looking defeated.

"I know you can do this, Parkman," Sylar said firmly. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," the man sighed. "I don't know. Okay... okay."

He tried again, much to the same response, but a more violent reaction. Sylar's face contorted with pain, while the former cop was winded and struggling to remain upright. "I can't," he wheezed. "I can't."

"Try again!" Sylar demanded.

"M-maybe it's not _me_ ," Matt replied. "Sylar, come on. Maybe it's you. Maybe you're just fighting it. Maybe you really don't _want_ to let go of these powers!"

_I'm not fighting this? Hell, I'm the only one who's actually **trying**! I want to be better, he just doesn't want to fix me!_ "No! You're lying!" Sylar snarled.

"I'm not _lying!_ " Matt snapped in return.

"Matt, what's going on?"

Reflex kicked in, and Janice was against the wall in less than a second, pinned my telekinesis. How many people had he done this to before? Did it matter? She was another one to get rid of, another hindrance, and he _would_ get his answers.

"No! Stop, _stop_!" Matt pleaded. "Oh, god. Please, _let her go_."

Upon seeing that Sylar didn't—or maybe _couldn't—_ hear him, he got louder. " _Hey!_ Hey, look at me! _Look at me_. Come on, let her go, she had nothing to do with this!"

Parkman continued to plead, being obnoxiously loud and a general pain in the ass, but it was distraction enough to temporarily snap him out of it.

"It's not good enough," he said quietly. Then, turning to Janice, he growled, "You see what you made me do?"

" _Hey!_ I don't even know if I can do this for you! Come on!"

"Maybe you need a little more motivation!" The anger was so close to the surface, palpable, taking over. But the pounding in his head had not yet stopped, and coupled with Matt's yelling, the pain was enough to shake the Hunger's hold. " _You will purge me of these powers, Parkman,_ " Sylar commanded softly. "Or I will use them. I will use them _all._ " The Hunger slipped back in, warm and inviting and powerful, all-consuming in its hatred, pulling him under and drowning him in promises of glory.

"And trust me... I can get really creative."

 

* * *

 

Claire snuck through the shadows toward Lydia's trailer, intercepting the woman while she was sitting on her front steps. It was a lucky break, one she needed. Despite her anger at Lydia for whatever may have transgressed between her and Sylar, she needed to warn her of the dangers, and that came first.

"Claire?" She said in surprise as she saw the blonde duck through her beaded curtains.

"We need to talk." A nervous expression flashed over the woman's face. "What are you doing here?"

Claire offered her hands wordlessly and Lydia wasted no time in taking them, her eyelids fluttering slightly as she read Claire's emotions.

"Your father is coming for Samuel... to _kill_ him? Claire, if Samuel finds out..."

"I know, that's why I came ahead," Claire whispered. "I have seen things like this go wrong before, and I don't want my dad or anyone else getting hurt. But we don't have a lot of time."

Lydia's eyes scanned the area before she dragged Claire closer to her front door. "How did you find this out?"

"Circumstances. I had to tell my dad about..." Claire grimaced. "Sylar found me. I was going to tell him, because he would kill me if he found out some other way, and I was going to try to break into the subject of Noah... Needless to say, I found out some interesting things and decided to head him off."

"Claire..." Lydia visibly swallowed. "About Sylar—"

Green eyes narrowed. "Is this the _time?_ "

"It's important."

"Did you sleep with him?"

"What? Of course not!"

"Then I forgive you," Claire said firmly. "And I probably would have, even if you did. I know you wouldn't intentionally do that to me. But Sylar left, he's gone. I don't know where he went."

" _Gone?_ " Lydia asked in surprise. "Claire, when he came to me, he was _desperately_ searching for something. Part of his memories were blocked- the pieces about you. With my ability, he was able to access them again, when he did, he practically ran out of here... you're saying he _left_? He didn't try to fix things between you?"

Claire grimaced, her heart thudding painfully. "He came to me for answers. I gave them to him, even though I didn't exactly intend to. Then he left... like always. He told me to take care of Noah."

Lydia's eyes widened. "He's trying to protect you."

"Terrible way of going about it."

"No, Claire. He's trying to protect you from _himself_ because he loves you."

"He never said that."

"Did he have to?"

Brown eyes were firm and motherly, but Claire didn't want to hear this- not now.

"Lydia, this isn't the time. Listen to me—the only way to keep everyone safe is if Samuel gives himself up. No struggles, no tricks, and even _he_ won't be hurt."

"Samuel will never go for it. He'll never turn himself in."

"We have to try."

"Claire," Lydia said desperately. "He is not listening to me, to _anyone_. If your father really _is_ on his way..." She nodded decisively. "I should get Amanda—"

"And what, Lydia?" Samuel cut in, stepping through the curtain, wide, angry eyes locked on the woman. "Run away? Has it come to that?"

The woman ducked her head.

"Can't say I blame you," Samuel sighed. "What I did to that town, all those people... Claire, I had hoped you'd have a better reason to come back to us."

"How could you do that?" Claire hissed.

"I don't know what I was thinking," the man whispered. "I wish I could take it all back. And so many other things. Joseph..." Samuel trailed off before he moved toward the curtain, looking out at his family as he prattled on about some story from his childhood. He was unhinged, he was losing it, and Claire and Lydia both knew it as they shared a look.

"I've been losing my way," he breathed. "And now, even my own family is afraid of me."

Claire grimaced, trying to hide her internal pain and failing miserably.

"The only strength I have left..."

"You have to take responsibility," Claire cut in. _Like Sylar and his powers._ "You have to turn yourself over."

Samuel scoffed. "To your father? He's not exactly known for his mercy."

"If you give yourself up, he will not hurt you, I _promise._ "

"Please, Samuel..." Lydia begged. "Listen to her."

The man still seemed unconvinced, and Claire stepped forward, not as a concerned friend this time, but as a mother who had faced hell to protect her baby. "If you care about this family, then _protect_ them."

It might have been her heartbroken tone that made Samuel give in. Claire knew that she wanted to cry as she said it, as she realized how big of a mistake she had made. Her only small comfort was when Lydia took her hand, sharing in her pain and her churning emotions, a person who understood exactly where she had been. They were both looking for the best for their families.

In his own way, was that what Sylar had been trying to do?

"Okay," Samuel said softly. "Call your father. Talk to him. But no one will be harmed _or_ separated... or it's deal off."

"Alright," Claire sighed. "Let's get out to the entrance so I can get some cell reception. Meanwhile, you can say whatever you need to say. Is that alright?"

Samuel nodded, Lydia falling into place at his side as they lead the way. Claire trailed behind, scrolling through the contacts of her phone until she reached her father's name. Despite a sudden wave of anxiety, she pressed the call button, holding the pink plastic up to her ear.

" _Hello, Claire."_

Oh, she did _not_ like that tone of voice one bit. "Dad, where are you?" She asked, suspiciously scanning the hills just outside the Carnival.

" _Close. I heard you stopped by earlier—thanks for the coffee. What's the situation there?"_

"Samuel wants to surrender," she replied, pacing slightly. The open area was starting to make her uncomfortable, especially since she had no idea where her father was, but knew he was watching. Likely through the barrel of a gun.

" _Really? Why?"_

"To protect his family. He's willing to turn himself over as long as the rest of the Carnival stays safe and under the grid."

" _And you trust him?"_

Claire's brow twitched. "If there is a _chance_ that we can do this without anyone getting hurt, don't we have to try?" She exchanged a glance with Samuel, who was clearly starting to see her in a new light. Claire was a leader, born Petrelli and raised Bennet.

She turned away. "Dad, it's the best plan. Alright? You get Samuel and nobody gets hurt."

There was a long pause on the other line. _"Alright. Tell him to meet us in the field outside of the Carnival. I'll see you soon."_

"Okay." Claire closed the line, shoving her phone into her pocket. "We're a-go. As soon as you're ready, we're going to meet him in the field outside. Safe exchange, just like we said."

"Thank you, Claire," Samuel sighed, reaching out to touch her arm. "You're a strong young woman. It's a shame you didn't stay with us. You would have made an excellent addition to the family."

Claire gave a short, impersonal nod as Samuel walked through the gathered crowd, climbing onto a crate so he was a good four feet above the rest.

_Bad,_ Claire's inner Bennet screamed. _Bad, bad. Easy target. He better make this quick._

Yet, it didn't appear so.

Samuel always _did_ love to talk.

"...the safety of each and every one of you and keeping this family together is what matters most to me. And if that means I have to leave, so be it-"

A shot.

Screams.

Blood.

Then, one after another in an irregular rhythm, more gunshots followed.

_That's not my dad,_ Claire thought. _He wouldn't fire, not when he knows that Samuel's going to surrender. He wouldn't—_

A bullet embedded itself into her neck, spilling her blood in a way which would have been fatal for any other person. She collapsed to the ground, struggling to pry out the tiny thing, finally feeling it fall into her slippery fingers, the hole healing as it passed.

_He never would have shot me, even accidentally. Never. That's not him!_

The shots stopped abruptly, leaving the Carnival with wails of fear and despair, the hay used to cover the ground coated in a mosaic of blood.

_What the hell was that all about?_

"Samuel, come quickly!"

Samuel staggered to his feet, Claire behind him. A crowd surrounded a fallen figure, familiar and strange to see her covered in stickiness and red.

_Lydia._

"No, no, no, no, no! _No!_ " Samuel fell to his knees, cradling the dying woman close.

Claire blanched. "You need to put pressure on the wound!" She commanded, looking to Doyle, who stood beside her in shock. "I need your help, come on!"

"Medical kit is in Lydia's trailer!" Doyle instructed.

Claire bolted ahead, making her way toward Lydia's trailer, where Amanda lingered fearfully in the doorway.

"What happened? I heard the shots—is everyone okay? Oh, god, you're covered in blood."

"Where's the medical kit?" Claire asked.

"Uh—um—" Amanda's face tightened in confused and panicked frustration, but she ran into her home and returned a moment later with an aluminum case. "Here. What happened?"

"Come with me," the blonde instructed. "Your mother—"

" _Mom?"_ Amanda gasped, taking off at a run, Claire catching up and easily overtaking her with speed and endurance.

It wasn't enough.

Samuel was laying the woman down as she skidded to a halt, Doyle right behind her.

"It's too late, Claire," the man whispered. "She's gone."

The tattoos were fading from the woman's skin, even the ones Claire had never realized weren't _real_. Soon her skin was bare and uninterrupted, a look so alien on Lydia that Claire could hardly believe it was her.

Samuel faded into body-wracking sobs as Amanda froze beside Claire, shocked into silence. For a whole minute, she did nothing but stare.

Then she fell to her knees, hand shaking as she reached out to touch her mother's red-stained and unmoving chest. "Mom... _Mommy..._ Mom, you gotta wake up..." she sniffled, shoulders shaking. " _Mom..._ "

Claire pulled the girl close, falling prey to the tears that stung at her eyes, as well. The sandy-haired girl clung to her, her voice cracking as she wailed out a lost, abandoned tune.

Another parent, ripped away from a child who needed them desperately.

Claire didn't try to shush her, just let the girl cry until she wasn't even crying, but _screaming_. Who else did she have in this world, Claire wondered? Lydia had never spoken of the girl's father. Due to the nature of the Carnival, Claire could only guess that he had run off or he was dead.

"My—my—my—" The girl stuttered.

"Breathe, Amanda," Claire soothed, rubbing the girl's back. "Breathe, honey. It's gonna be okay."

"It won't," the girl sobbed. "It won't. My mom is _dead._ She's dead. I don't have anyone else."

"That's not true," another voice cut in—Samuel, resting his hand on the girl's shoulder. "You're still here. You still have us. We have been and always will be your family, through thick and thin, life and death. You will never be without—love, or a home, that's all here for you."

She must have cried for a while longer before Samuel gently pried her away from Claire, leading the sobbing girl away from the body of her mother and toward one of the women's trailers, where he bid her to rest and to mourn properly.

Claire whipped out her phone.

She knew her father hadn't done this, but _someone_ had. And when she found out who, she would kill them herself.

No one took a parent from their child.

No one.

 

* * *

 

"If you hurt her, I swear to god—!"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Sylar replied miserably. " _One_ cruel thought is all it takes. These powers make it so _easy."_

"I understand that. Believe me," Matt assured him. "But you don't have to use them like this."

"Except I do." There was no room for argument. "The powers _are_ me, now. You've been there, dealt with the abilities, the _constant_ temptation. Tell me, how do _you_ compartmentalize? How do you keep them from overwhelming _the rest of your life?_ "

"You start by accepting the fact that you're _more_ than just your abilities," Matt whispered.

Sylar was struggling to maintain his control, to keep a level head above the Hunger. It was terrible and tempting to just dive back down, but whenever he considered it, _her face flashed before his eyes,_ _and he thought, I owe this to her._

"Come on," Parkman added. "We're people _first._ Please, _let her go._ "

He looked at Parkman, saw the terrified love in his eyes when the man looked at Janice. Finally, something clicked in his mind.

_She is to him what Claire is to me._

He let the woman go.

The relief that crossed the man's face automatically only enhanced that observation, and his next words cemented it. "Look, I'll try to do what you want, but you got to give me a couple of minutes—make sure she's okay."

"Last chance, Parkman."

As soon as the words were out, Parkman was moving, carefully taking his wife and leading her away from him, to where she would be safe. He watched for only a moment before he collapsed into a chair. Though his body was perfectly fine, his mind was exhausted from the stress of beating down the Hunger.

It was so much harder than he thought it would be.

Parkman returned a few minutes later with a new resolve.

"Alright, get on with it," Sylar said quietly.

"You were right," Matt said with a slight nod. "I was holding back. It's all about motivation."

Sylar sighed, bending his head and looking down at his hands. At this point, he just wanted this whole train wreck to be over with. He wanted these powers—these _curses—_ gone.

And then he was drowning in a flood of images, of memories and jumbled-up senses, of people he had forgotten in the wake of his grand plan. Everything echoes back a thousand times over, and yet, someone was gong _through_ all of those memories, examining each and every one. Every sound, every light, every word was analyzed. All of his weakest moments, all of his darkest secrets, exposed.

And then the turmoil was gone, and he was sitting in that chair in Parkman's living room, his head spinning.

He sat back with a few heavy breaths. "I don't feel any different."

"Try something. Go ahead, on me. Come on." Parkman nodded.

Sylar stood uncertainly, still a bit dizzy from the emotional onslaught. And then, calling upon his telekinesis, he held out his hand.

Nothing.

"You did it," he breathed. "My powers are gone."

"No, they're not gone," Matt corrected. "They're just buried somewhere that you can never get to them." A vengeful victorious expression broke out across the man's face. "You've threatened my family for the _last time._ "

"What did you do?" Sylar whispered.

"I know _exactly_ what scares you, _Gabriel_ , and it's being alone with your immortality."

"What did you do to me?"

"I have _trapped_ you inside your twisted mind," Matt snarled. "You're gonna be _alone_ , Sylar, very much alone, in this _nightmare_ that will last _forever._ And the best part about it is that when I leave here, you're not gonna remember what I did, and you're gonna live _every empty day_ like it's _real_."

_He's a monster._

"You said you would help me," he said quietly, reeling in the deception.

"Yeah. Well, I guess there's still a little of you left inside of me," Matt Parkman hissed. "Because I _lied._ "

He was shoved, falling backwards into a heavy sit, baffled, confused, and utterly _betrayed._ It wasn't—it wasn't _fair._ This was _Matt Parkman_ , the harmless cop, the guy who helped anyone who was in need. He was the guy who had sworn never to become his father, the same way Sylar had sworn for his.

And now, look at them both—carbon copies of their sires, exactly where they said they'd never be.

He only had a moment to revel in those realizations before they were torn from him, recent events becoming an unintelligible blur.

Most importantly, he wasn't sure how he had gotten where he was. Looking around, Sylar noted the buildings, the sidewalks and the street he was standing in the middle of. All of a sudden, he knew where he was.

He was in New York City.

And he was completely, totally and _utterly_ alone.

 

 

 


	14. The Wall of Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x17 "The Wall"

It hadn't been easy.

The silence had been louder than anything—that's why he collected the clocks, the watches, all the timepieces left behind.

But even the unsynchronized ticking of them all wasn't enough to step the loneliness.

How had things ended up this way? Empty streets, empty sidewalks, empty apartments—everything was empty, deserted.

He was the only one left.

It took all of the first year to give up on searching for anyone else. There _was_ no one else. He was alone, and that was that.

Though it was terrible, some part of him was at peace. At least, when the world was like this, he would never hurt another person ever again. It was a small comfort, though, when he thought about all the time that had passed, all the time he had _missed_ in the lives of the only two people who had, at one time, _been_ his life.

He hadn't even met one of them.

And now, he never could.

Sylar wondered what it would have been like, if this was just a normal world and he wasn't the only one left. Could Claire have brought herself to forgive him? Would he have gotten to know his son?

Or would he have continued on with the live of a killer, leaving his family behind in search of the Hunger's promises?

If he wasn't there, Noah would never have to suffer the agonies of a distant father. He would never have to suffer the drinks and the drugs, the late-night screaming. He would never have to be pushed into walls, hit with fists and whatever else a man in a rage could come across.

Such simple things had once seemed like weapons of mass destruction. The mention of a belt would instill more fear than the legend of a missile ever could.

No. Instead, Noah would have led a normal, happy life.

Claire would have gotten her degree, gotten a job. She would find someone that made her happy, telling only the vaguest stories of a man that had gotten her pregnant in high school to explain the presence, the _blessing_ of their son. When Noah would ask about his father, she would never tell. For all Sylar knew, his name might not have even been listed on the boy's birth certificate.

He wouldn't have blamed her.

But, now, those days were gone, as were those possibilities.

One day, it had occurred to him that Claire was supposed to live forever, too. But after months of searching, she was never there.

He had been forced to accept that he was alone in this nightmare of a world, and that it would stay that way.

Sylar roamed the city during the days, but he never once even tried to brave his apartment. The place held too many memories, of experiments with Chandra Suresh, of _Patient_ Zero, of how he had coped after the murder of Brian Davis, the murder that started it all. No, at night, he slept on the floor of the workroom next door to his repair shop, firmly believing that he didn't deserve the comfort of a bed.

The world was _dead_ because of him.

It was the second year that he started seeing things.

It was nothing big, at first. He would see something moving from the corner of his eye, and when he would turn, there was nothing. Not a bug, not a mouse, not a bird.

Then he would be walking, and he would think he saw someone on the other side of the street. But there was never anyone there, and after the fourteenth time this happened, he stopped even bothering to look up.

He would hear things in the silence, sometimes. He would think he heard the purr of a car on the streets outside or footsteps down the hall or a door closing on the floor below.

But it was always nothing. Never nothing.

He didn't know anymore.

At night, he would dream.

He would dream of the way New York used to look, with people milling the streets, children drawing on the sidewalks with chalk, the lights changing colors and directing the cars lie magic. The cacophony of urban life—the irritated car horns, the outdated boomboxes, the rhythmic _tic_ of jump ropes against concrete, the whir of wheels, the barking of dogs. All the things that made a city a city.

He would dream of mercy, of not feeling the urge to kill. Of being spared from the Hunger's claws while in the company of others, instead of _finally_ learning to temper it when he was alone.

He would dream of Claire. Of that day at the Stanton, of holding her in his arms. Of kissing her. Of just _talking_ to her. Of having more of a life together than just the few, brief moments he had ruined, and now could never fix.

Not all of the dreams were that pleasant, though. Most of them were not even bittersweet. Most of them were jarring and violent, showing him his victims all over again, one after another, in a repetitive, inescapable cycle.

_I deserve this,_ he thought as he awoke in the mornings, heart beating rapidly, his body drenched in a cold sweat. _I deserve every moment._

Sylar never questioned why he was there.

He knew that it was where he belonged.

 

* * *

 

At first, he didn't realize the sound for what it was.

He froze at the desk he was sitting at, surrounded by the watches he obsessively fixed, listening to their tiny, symphonic heartbeats. The sound he was hearing was bigger than a watch, louder than a _tick tock_ , and had no real rhythm at all. It was angry, it was frustrated, it was aggressive.

It was real.

All over again, it felt like the very first day, Sylar realized, as he grabbed his coat and rushed down the stairs. The air had been cold and bitter and _still_ every day, but that wouldn't stop him, not now.

_That sound isn't in my head. Someone is making that._

He stood in the middle of the deadened street, hands shoved in his pockets to protect them from the frigid air. "Hello?" Sylar called, voice hoarse with disuse as he turned in place, looking for the source of the sound. Then, louder. " _Hello?_ "

_Bang. Bang._

He turned quickly, seeing a figure standing still, a metal pole in hand.

He recognized that man.

"Peter?"

He started walking toward him, slowly—the other man didn't seem to have the same reservations, approaching at a brisk pace.

"Is that _really_ you?"

Why, after all this time, would _Peter Petrelli_ be standing there? Why him, Sylar's rival? Was this a trick? Were his hallucinations escalating?

"I came to get you out of here," the brunette man— _boy_ , really—said.

That didn't make sense, but since when had hallucinations been _logical_? But, the things was, the man didn't _look_ fake. In fact, he looked _real_. Very real.

Sylar reached out hesitantly; he wasn't sure if he would be able to survive if this was fake. How would he keep going if this kept happening, giving him hope and tearing it away? If the visions became worse?

But as his fingers touched Peter's shoulder, he was nearly floored with the realization that Peter Petrelli was _here_.

"It _is_ you, isn't it?" he breathed, taking a step away—it had to be too good to be true. It _had_ to be. "I thought I was alone here, that everyone was dead. _What are you doing here?_ "

"I came to drag your sorry ass out of here," the younger replied, patience obviously thin. "Now, let's go."

He scoffed—well, if Peter thought that he could get out of this hell after Sylar, himself, had been trying all this time, he was sorely mistaken. "There is no getting out of here, Peter. I've tried. For three years."

"Three _years?_ " Peter exclaimed, frown deepening. "What are you talking about? It's been three _hours_."

Sylar's eyes narrowed. _Three hours? Hardly. I think I know how long it's been when I've surrounded myself with timepieces. This is a trick._ "Wait a minute," he said softly, backing up further. "You're not... really here. You're not real." He turned, looking around for a source of explanation and found none. "This is my mind, isn't it? This is my mind playing tricks on me as part of my punishment, _isn't it?_ "

He turned back to the young Petrelli, lip curling in broken, disappointed anger. "You think I'm going to let you taunt me?" He snarled. "You _stay away._ If you follow me, I will _kill you,_ do you understand me?"

Sylar took off at a run as fast as he could, back toward the shop. He had to get away, had to make these visions stop. They were getting worse.

He was losing his mind.

"Sylar!"

Footsteps were pursuing him, loud and slightly off-beat as Sylar threw himself into his workroom, finding defense only in a hammer and holding it in front of him. Now, he regretted not searching for a gun; but there was a time when he would have laughed at such feeble weapons. This? It was hardly enough to be considered a tool.

Peter burst into the tiny chamber after him, but Sylar was... well, as ready as he would ever be. "I swear, I'll kill you! Get out of my head!"

"Calm down," the smaller brunette said in annoyance. "I'm telling you the truth. I came to take you out of here."

The things he saw were not usually this persistent.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Sylar asked quietly.

"I went to Parkman's house to look for you," the man said by way of an answer. "He put you here. This is a _dream_."

" _It's not a dream!"_ Sylar roared, pain and uncertainty taking hold, as well as a crippling _fear._

Peter looked at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was.

"This is real," he insisted quietly.

The man shook his head in confused disbelief. "You really don't understand that this is all just a _nightmare?_ "

"Hell yes, it's a nightmare. Three years, _completely_ alone..."

"Not years," Peter corrected. " _Hours._ Alright? Parkman trapped you here."

He scanned his mind for a memory of that and came up blank. "Parkman? That's impossible."

"Is it?" The brown-eyed man's hands were still up in surrender. "What's the last thing you remember before coming here?"

_I don't know._

"I remember... wanting my life to change," Sylar started slowly. "Thinking I was going to spend all of eternity alone."

" _Exactly._ And here you are."

He looked up in surprise, their eyes meeting. Peter looked so full of grim certainty that Sylar was finding it hard to doubt him. But he couldn't doubt the facts- he had been trying to escape for the past three years. It wasn't about to work now.

"Look, I've _got_ Parkman's ability. I can take you out of here."

The older man stared at him, uncertain and perplexed. "Why would you ant to do that? The brother of the man I _murdered_ , coming to my aid?"

Peter grimaced slightly. "Because I need you to help me." He was silent for a moment while he gathered and recovered his original thought process. "Look, I _could_ leave you here to rot, but I need you to save her—my friend, Emma," he clarified. "In the dream, you save her before she kills thousands of people."

Sylar scoffed, shaking his head slowly. "No," he breathed. "You got the wrong guy. I'm not the savior kind. You should know that better than anybody."

"It's gonna happen," Peter said again firmly. "And you're gonna save her."

The older man stared at him for a long moment before s dry, bitter chuckle escaped him. He dropped the hammer with a clatter—such an inelegant tool, he had no use for, anyway. "Fine. You really think you can get us out of here? Let me see you _try._ Go ahead."

Peter nodded once, and reached out to put his hand on the taller man's shoulder, radiating a warmth that Sylar hadn't felt in, well, _years._ The younger man closed his eyes and concentrated, but despite a brief tug Sylar felt at the back of his mind, nothing happened.

"See?" He asked with a grim smirk. "We're not going anywhere. We're trapped here, forever."

The man's eyes widened with the realization that _yes, in all actuality, he was stuck in an empty city with a serial killer._

A quiet, frustrated cry escaped Peter, and he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door to the workshop behind him.

 

* * *

 

He saw Peter only twice again for the next month.

Once, he was just walking. Sylar saw him from afar and called out to him, but by the time he's tried to catch up, the Petrelli was gone.

The second time, he had simply sat on an abandoned staircase while Sylar tried to coax him to speak. It was to no avail, and after nearly four hours of trying, he gave up and returned to his shop.

Nothing productive happened that month.

The next time Sylar found him, he was sitting on a rooftop, all the concrete of it and the surrounding buildings coated in a thick layer of graffiti. He's brought better tactics this time. He could only hope that it would be enough.

After all, Peter Petrelli was a loud, optimistic, energetic kid. How long could he _really_ be somber and silent, anyway? Brooding wasn't his thing. That was best left to Nathan.

"Give it up, man," Sylar sighed, and Peter jolted. The elder approached slowly before he set down a bookbag he had found across the city, resting it on a cement support next to a long-dead satellite. "You can't go forever without talking to me. I mean, you've gone a _month_. That's impressive." He sat beside his bag, scowling out at the emptiness. "There isn't anybody out there!" He called. "There never _will_ be!"

Peter was silent for a second before he said quietly, with conviction, "I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life here, _alone_ , with _you_."

"Ah." _He speaks. Wonderful. How I missed that wonderful sense of humor,_ Sylar though with a sarcastic smile toward the other. "It isn't exactly _heaven_ for me, either."

He pulled a rolled-up issue from his bag, the cover bright with warm colors— _9th Wonders—_ and tossed it over. "Here. I know you like comics. Couldn't find _Doc Savage_ or _Flash—"_

Peter carelessly dropped the comic over the side of the building.

Sylar stood. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You need to stop _messing around_ and _focus_ ," he ordered, getting down from his seated position, also.

" _Oh,_ " Sylar snorted. "Focus, _right._ 'Cause we gotta get out of here, so we can go rescue..." He trailed off into silence, shrugging emotionlessly at Peter. "What's her name again? _Ah!_ "

The back of Peter's clenched fist slammed into his face, painful and unexpected.

The man shook his hand, leveling a glare at him. " _Emma,_ " he said quietly. "Her name's _Emma._ "

Sylar let out a growl. _Where does he get off on hitting me? Not that I don't deserve it, but doesn't_ _he see that the girl is gone? Everyone's gone._ "It's time to face reality, Peter," Sylar hissed. "That girl is gone, and if she's meant to kill thousands, they're dead, too. Everybody's _dead,_ except us."

"The only thing that's _real_ ," Peter whispered, baring his teeth, "is _us_." He stared straight at him, making sure he got the point, before he turned and walked right back down the staircase Sylar had come up on.

But Sylar wasn't going to be left behind so easily this time.

He followed.

"You're wrong," he replied as he walked behind the other. "Everything is real. The silence is real. The city is real."

" _No,_ " Peter argued as he reached the bottom of the staircase and headed out onto the street. "Parkman made those things. You think you've been here for years, but this is all just a dream."

"If this is all a _dream_ , how are there _books_ , huh?" Sylar retorted, spotting the discarded comic on the ground and stopping to pick it up. "How did _Parkman_ make _books_?"

"Because it's _your_ dream."

"How could I _possibly_ know all the words to _Pillars of the Earth_ or _Catch-22_?"

"I don't know!" Peter shot back in exasperation. "Maybe you read it somewhere and it's in your subconscious."

"Yeah, well, _I didn't read 9_ _th_ _Wonders!_ " Sylar shouted, throwing the comic at the young man's back.

"I did," he replied calmly.

"So now we're in _your_ head?"

"I don't _know! I don't know_ how this all works!" Peter stopped walking away and turned to face him, throwing his arms up in the air, frustrated. "Don't you want to get out of here?"

"Yeah, _of course!_ " he exclaimed, throwing his arms out in an echo of the other's exasperation. _Don't you think I want to go back to people? Go back to a life where I can be a normal person? Don't_ _you think I want to be near my son, be near the girl I've been in love with and thought about every day for the past four years? Of course I do. I want to be out as much as you do. I'm just scared of messing it all up again._

He looked away, attempting to breathe deeply and channel some of his anger away from the vague echo of the Hunger that was still anchored somewhere in his being.

"You _don't_ , do you?" Peter asked angrily. He laughed one, shaking his head. " _You don't want to get out of here!"_

"Maybe I _deserve_ all this aloneness!" Sylar snapped helplessly. _No, I don't want to say this all to Peter Petrelli. Not to him. He won't get it._ "This _nothing—_ maybe I earned it!"

"Yeah, maybe you have," Peter conceded. "But I can't do this on my own. I need you to _help_ me. Okay?"

The long-held anger that had been brewing in hazel-tinted brown eyes was lessened by Peter's desperate need to escape. It was founded on illogical desires, to _escape_ this place, if it really _was_ a dream, and to save the woman he so obviously cared about.

There were so many things here that could be said, and Sylar knew that it wasn't going to be easy.

But if he wanted things to change, he was damn well going to have to try.

He swung his bag off his shoulder tossing it to the ground with a helpless gesture. "Alright, Peter," he said, giving in. "You want me to help you?"

He took a few steps forward, coming to a stop in front of the man whose brother he had killed so many days, months, _years_ before. There was a quiet muted hope, underneath all that anger.

If they were going to be stuck here, they might as well be stuck together.

"I want to help."

They both nodded, finally coming to a mutually beneficial understanding. When they turned, however, they found their way was blocked by a huge brick wall. It must have been tens, if not _hundreds_ of feet high—impossible to climb, at any rate. But _where the hell had it come from_?

His thoughts escaped his mouth, stunned by the sudden appearance of a _gigantic brick wall_.

"That's the wall from Parkman's _basement_ ," Peter said with a surprised frown.

"What's it doing here?"

The Petrelli stared at the wall for a full minute before he nodded solemnly to himself. "This is our way out."

" _What?_ " Sylar asked n surprise.

"Don't you get it? We have to break through."

Sylar stared at the monstrosity of a wall, wondering at the sheer _size_ of the damn thing. _There's no way we can ever break through a behemoth like that._

"How?" he asked incredulously. "We don't have abilities. There's no way in hell that we'll ever be able to get through it."

"In a situation like this, we'll have to make due with whatever we can find," Peter replied. "Sledgehammers. There have to be a bunch in this city. We'll find them and then we'll pound our way through."

Sylar sighed sharply, nodding once as the other turned and started to walk away.

He, however, was frozen, staring. _So this is the gateway from Hell,_ he mused. _I never thought I'd get to see it in person._

"Sylar!" Peter shouted, startling the man out of his reverie as he turned. "Are you coming?"

He stared at the other, confused beyond measure.

"Come on," the younger encouraged. "I'm going to need your help."

He blinked, and a small, wry smile twisted his lips.

He nodded.

 

* * *

 

He never would have helped him find sledgehammers if he'd known that Peter would be swinging them at that damn wall _for six days straight._

"Hey!" he shouted over the pounding. "You should eat."

The pounding had been going nonstop since Peter had started hoarding the hammers, working them so hard that he had already broken a few. In the silence, the sound of it echoed off the buildings all day and all night—Sylar had barely slept because of it.

"Don't _need_ to eat. Don't _need_ to sleep. Don't _need_ anything," he argued stubbornly, finally dropping the hammer, out of breath. He put his hand to the wall, inspecting the untarnished bricks, shoulders slumping slightly.

"Any progress today?" Sylar asked.

He groaned. "No. It's just like yesterday, and the day before that."

" _And_ the day before _that_ ," the elder added, pressing his hands against the wall before he turned, resting his back against it.

"Now, it's been..." Peter checked his watch. "I don't even know how long it's been."

Sylar opened his mouth.

" _Don't_ tell me how long it's been."

And shut it.

"Can't even dent it, Peter," he said quietly instead. "I don't know how much longer you can keep this up."

Peter shrugged. "As long as it takes," he said, walking away from the wall for a moment to grab a bottle of water he had been drinking from all day.

Recognition pinged in his chest when he saw Peter's expression. It started deep and spread through him like comforting, liquid pride, edged by a touch of fond annoyance. "I know that look... You have it all the time."

"What look?"

It was a memory brought to the forefront of his mind, of years ago with a much younger boy out of much better eyes. His sense of self started to blur and his mouth started to move, just as much _Nathan_ in that moment as he was _Sylar_. "Like when Howie Kaplan beat you at the fifty-yard dash, and you and I ran to school every morning, and kept training, and kept it up, right?"

Peter threw down his water bottle, storming over to him and invading his space, angry and aggravated and irritable and _adorable,_ and— _what? No!_

"That's Nathan's memory, that's not yours!" Peter hissed, sounding all-too-much like the child that had pouted whenever Nathan had stolen his model planes and took the carrot sticks out of Peter's lunch in exchange for his cucumbers, which the boy never _did_ like—

_No! Stop it, Nathan._

_He's my brother._

"I _told_ you to _stop doing that_ ," the younger of the two ordered. "You're not _him._ You're _nothing_ like him."

_Pete..._

Sylar swallowed, fighting the strangely familiar urge to tug the smaller man into his arms, to rest his chin on top of his head and just _breathe_ , as relaxing for him as it was for Peter, and—

_Goddammit, Nathan, stop! He's not mine!_

"So you've told me," he replied weakly, edging past him with a frustrated frown. It was getting harder and harder each day, being this exposed to the man and with these memories popping up, triggered by the little things he would say or do.

Like it or not, Nathan was a part of him, and while he was usually content to lie dormant, when Peter was there, he was pulled to the surface.

It was... aggravating. Frustrating. Especially when he knew _that connection wasn't his_. It was Nathan's. It shouldn't have brought him that much peace, just to be near him. It was _Nathan_ that was feeling those things, not him.

He stopped and turned. "Look, Peter, I know I've said it before, but... I'm sorry."

The younger ignored him, picking up the sledgehammer and swinging it into the wall.

"I'm sorry that I killed him. I'm sorry that I took him from you. I'm—"

" _Sorry!_ " Peter roared, turning around, livid and pained. "You keep saying that! _I'm sorry, I'm **sorry**. _ It's not gonna bring my brother _back!_ It doesn't change _anything!_ "

" _You're right!"_ He snapped. "Nothing changes! We're _stuck_ here forever, _you and me_." He snatched up a sledgehammer, trying not to feel too bad at the anxious glance Peter shot him. "I can't take it anymore."

"What are you gonna do?" Peter asked quietly.

"I'm gonna end this."

He stepped forward, not sure for a moment _what_ he was going to do, but then decided, _it's time to get out of here._

The sledgehammer slammed into the wall.

"I can't bring Nathan back, Peter," the man said with a wry smile. "But I can sure as _hell_ swing a sledgehammer."

 

* * *

 

Night fell, and they had made no headway.

It was late, nearly ten, before Sylar stopped, laying his hammer down, winded and exhausted. He turned, expecting Peter to stay like he had for the past—well, _week_ , but was surprised when the man ground to a halt, also.

"You're going to stop?" Sylar asked in surprise.

Peter nodded, chest still heaving from the exertion. "Yeah. Believe it or not, I actually _am_ tired, and... I could probably do with a little sleep."

"Well," he started, frowning. "My workshop is small, but you're welcome to stay, if you want."

Peter shook his head slightly. "My apartment is much bigger and not too far. And more comfortable. I'm guessing, since this is at least partially _my_ head, too, that it exists."

Sylar smiled a bit. "Probably."

He sighed, watching at Peter passed him, confused when the younger man stopped about twenty feet away and turned.

"Are you coming?"

He blinked in surprise. "What?"

"To my apartment. It's a hell of a lot more comfortable than that workshop you have. You could probably use some sleep, too. You look like hell."

Still stunned by the other man's offer he hesitated. "I don't know..."

"Look," Peter said with a frown. "I know that I get pissed at you for that Nathan thing you do. But the fact that it's happening shows that my brother isn't completely gone. And..." He shifted uncomfortably. "I don't want to lose Nathan, so..."

"Okay," Sylar conceded. _That_ was understandable, at the very least.

They talked quietly about meaningless things as they crossed the deserted city, the travel taking a short time, as there was no traffic on the streets or sidewalks. When they arrived, though, Peter seemed to realize that he didn't have his keys.

"It's no problem," he said, taking hold of the door handle and pulling firmly upwards, then using his shoulder to ram against it. The door popped open easily, and, from what Sylar could see, with no damage. "Huh. Guess it still works in fake worlds, too. Good to know."

"How did you do that?" the elder asked curiously.

Peter shrugged, a tiny smile lighting his face. "Locked myself out once. I noticed that the door had settled, and I never lock the deadbolt unless I'm inside, so I just popped the bottom out. Simple."

"Impressive."

The other flipped the switch and the light flickered on overhead. "Electricity works."

Sylar nodded. "No one to turn it off."

"Morbid, but helpful."

They both chuckled as Peter stood aside to let him in. "Yeah. This is my apartment. There's not much to it, but I mainly just use it as a place to crash. Otherwise, I was always at work."

"You're a paramedic, right?"

"Right. I was in Hospice before my powers manifested. Then, I decided I wanted to be a hero." Peter snorted. "Look where it's gotten me."

Sylar grimaced. "I really _am_ , you know. Sorry."

Peter nodded a little. "Well, you didn't bring me in here. That was all me. Parkman told me not to, but I ignored him."

A frown twisted the other man's face as Peter directed him toward the sofa, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with two glasses of water. "How did you find me, anyway? Thanks." He took a sip of the liquid, sighing as it cooled his dry throat.

"Ma told me," he said, sitting on the arm of the opposite end of the couch, slouching bonelessly.

The former killed snorted. " _Of course_ she did."

"She was the one who had the dream. I took her power, then I got it, too. She said that you've never been far from her thoughts." Peter's forehead creased with a frown. "I wonder why that is."

His fist clenched, but Sylar forced it to relax before the glass shattered in his hand—he didn't have powers anymore, after all. _There's no way he knows. He never would have let me here if he did. He would have killed me by now._

At his silence, curious brown eyes turned on him. " _You_ don't know why, do you?"

Sylar twitched.

"You do?"

"Stop being perceptive," he muttered, frowning into his glass of water, brows furrowing. "I can't tell you. I shouldn't."

Peter looked interested, now. "Aw, come on. You can't just say something like that and then not tell."

"It's not because I don't want to. It's just... safety."

The younger leaned forward, dark eyes bright and begging. "Come on," he said, a pout obvious in his voice in a way that was much too familiar. "Give me a hint."

" _Pete—_ " he complained, the tone and familiar nickname obviously taking the boy aback slightly. The elder cursed. "Peter, damn it. _Peter._ "

"Oh, well, you _gotta_ tell me now."

Sylar let out a sharp exhale, staring at his reflection in the surface of the greatly-depleted water. Combined affection coiled in his chest, his and Nathan's, when he thought of the girl who had stolen his heart.

"Well..." he started slowly. "A while ago... _hypothetically_ , I could have had... _someone._ "

Peter choked on his drink. Sylar frowned in alarm as the boy spluttered, coughing until his face was red. It wasn't quite a spit-take, but it was enough to send a bolt of annoyance through Sylar.

"What, _you_?" Peter gasped. "Had... _someone_ , like a _girl_ someone?"

"Yes, like a _girl_ _someone_ ," he replied, scowling.

"Like—I just... I can't process that."

"That's why I didn't want to tell you," the other sighed.

"No, I mean—just—Jesus. It's just _you_ , you know? I never thought about it before. I didn't exactly figure that you'd have the time."

Sylar's lips twitched. "I didn't intend for anything to start between us. I mean, I had considered, but... it was her, ultimately, that decided to push the issue."

Peter stared at him, mouth open. "Did she _know?_ "

Sylar eyes the younger man, amused by his response, as well as annoyed. _Oh, if only he knew the whole truth. He would blow a gasket. And then he would kill me._ "About my powers? Of course. I wouldn't have bothered if she didn't. At that point in time, they essentially _were_ me."

"And about the, uh..." Peter's brows lowered as he considered his wording. "And about your _addiction?_ "

Sylar burst into loud, uproarious laughter. "That's one way I haven't heard it said before. But, yes. She did."

"And she was still with you?"

He shrugged, still smiling, but a little uneasy. "She accepted me for who I was. She understood that I couldn't really help it, and I will be forever grateful that she gave me the chance to prove myself otherwise."

Peter nodded, letting out a sharp sigh, muttering, "I still can't believe that _Sylar_ has a _girlfriend_. But that doesn't explain why my mother has her eye on you."

The man's nose wrinkled. "Hypothetically?"

Surprised eyes widened. "There's _more?_ "

_Oh, you have no idea._ "More than I can tell you. And we're quickly approaching the edge of what I should and should not say."

Peter scowled at him. "Man, who am I gonna _tell_?"

"It's not you _sharing_ that I'm worried about."

Peter stared at him long and hard, considering heavily while the smile started to fade from his face. His head tilted, as it always did when he was thinking about something a little harder than he should, and always meant he was coming up with something he _shouldn't—_

_Nathan._

_It's just... he's Peter._

_I understand that, and I understand that Claire is your daughter, but—_

_Oh, don't even get me started on **that**. If your emotions weren't so plain to read, I would have ripped you apart long before now._

_I'd have liked to see you try._

_Don't underestimate me._

_I don't._

_Good._

"You're worried about my reaction?" Peter asked.

Sylar scowled.

The younger scowled, setting his empty glass on the table beside the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. "You don't trust me?"

_What a loaded question._ "You don't trust _me?_ "

"Hypothetically?"

Sylar smirked at that. "Peter, I hardly care about raising hell in your life anymore. Honestly, if we ever get out of here, if it really _is_ just a nightmare, I'm going to go straight to— _her_ ," _Thank god I caught myself._ "—and beg for her to forgive me for disappearing from their lives for so long."

" _Their?_ "

"Shit."

Peter jumped to his feet, unsure of what he was supposed to do after that, and _gaped_. "Don't tell me you have a _kid_?"

Sylar covered his face with his hands. "...hypothetically?"

"Shit! What the—just—when— _how_ —what the _fuck?_ "

"If you can ask your questions calmly, I'll answer... calmly," Sylar sighed.

Peter went unnaturally silent, staring even still. "Just... a _kid_. You. And a... a _kid?_ "

"Yes, Peter."

"Are you like..." Peter struggled for a word as he slid back onto the couch, this time on the cushions, but back still braced against the arm. " _Married?_ "

The former killed shook his head. "No. We're not. We didn't intend for _any_ of this to happen. And when I found out she was pregnant, we... I did what I could to protect her." His fist clenched, and Sylar forced himself to lean over the side of the couch and place the glass down.

"And my mother? How did she get involved?"

"That's... complicated." The older man took in a deep breath, letting it out in a slow sigh. "She dreamt of my... well, she dreamt of her when she became pregnant and contacted her. She warned her that... things wouldn't end well, and that it had to be kept a complete secret for her safety, and our son's. She... helped us, I suppose you could say."

"Helped..." Peter mused. "But—wait. When did this all happen? Are you saying she _knew_ and she still forced you into my brother's body? Or, well, my brother into _your_ body?"

Sylar nodded, expression pinched. "She did. Her emotions for Nathan were more prevalent than her concern for my wellbeing. She wasn't concerned for me, anyway—just for my son, because he has extreme potential."

Peter was frowning, now, too. "I can't believe that she would do that. I mean, she _knew_ how hard it was for me when _my_ dad died."

Sylar shrugged helplessly. "It wasn't like she would willingly divulge what she had done. Not even to you, Peter."

The brunette shook his head. "Still. So... your girl, she was pregnant during the government thing? How did she not get captured?"

Lips twitching, the older man considered exactly what to say for a long moment before he answered. "Angela's assistance and an amazing amount of luck. Had they caught her, had they known that the child she was carrying was _mine_ , they wouldn't have treated her like they treated the others, I'm sure. For her, like me, they would have skipped over containment and likely would have incapacitated her in any way they could. Not that she would have made it easy."

Peter tilted his head to the side, drawing his legs close to his chest. "She had a power, too, didn't she?"

He simply nodded.

Peter closed his eyes, resting his head against his knees, his shoulders slumping in an exhausted and defeated expression. Sylar imagined that he was taking it hard- all his opinions, his preconceived notions about the man who had murdered his beloved brother were being twisted right before his very eyes.

He couldn't imagine that going well for _anyone._

Just when he was about to suggest that Peter finally give up and get some rest, the man startled him with one more question.

"Sylar?"

"What is it?"

"Do you love her?"

A few long, nearly-silent breaths.

One brown eye opened, peering at him curiously.

Sylar's expression crumbled, the air leaving his lungs in a long sigh.

"Yeah, Peter. I really do."

 

* * *

 

Countless months passed.

Day after day, they stood side-by-side at the wall, swinging sledgehammers against it time and time again. And, day after day, they would return to Peter's apartment where Sylar would pass out on the couch and Peter would sleep on his mattress on the floor.

There were good moments and there were bad.

They fought about the most trivial things sometimes- but also about the most monumental things. Sometimes Sylar would slip up when Peter triggered Nathan's memories; _more_ _than_ more than once, that was the cause of their arguments. In one of their worst fights to date, Peter had triggered so many memories that Nathan himself emerged. Peter had screamed and thrown things and thrown a general fit, trying to get him to change back, and Nathan did the best he could to calm his brother down. Peter had eventually resorted to locking himself in the bathroom and crying for _hours._

After those fights, though, things would get better. The gap between the arguments was growing more vast every day, and Peter was starting to become more gracious about those little slips. Things were starting to right themselves—at least, as well as they _could_ in this empty world.

However, Sylar's nightmares were coming more an more frequently. At night, now, he found himself awake more often then not, haunted by the images of his past. Even now, when he and Nathan were coming to some semblance of peace, his mind was still in turmoil.

And he knew, somehow, that there was only one way to face those memories once and for all.

"Peter?" Sylar asked that day during their midday water break.

"Huh?"

"I think there's something I have to do. You know, before I can leave."

Peter blinked at him, catching his water bottle from where he had been tossing it aimlessly in the air. "Really? Like what?"

"I think..." Sylar trailed off into silence, frowning. Peter didn't push for him to continue, just waited patiently as he thought. "I think I have to go to my old apartment. I've been trying to avoid it and the memories it holds, but... something keeps pulling me back. I think that might be what's keeping us here." He looked up, their eyes meeting. "Will you come with me?"

The younger man took a moment to consider before he replied. "Okay. Let's go."

"Now?" he asked in surprise.

"When else?" Peter answered. "We're not making any progress here. If there's a way that we can fix this, we should do it now. The sooner it's done, the sooner we're out."

"...right. You're right." Sylar dropped the sledgehammer with a clatter. "Follow me."

Peter didn't talk as they made their way through the streets—which was just as well, since Sylar didn't have anything to say. The nerves had started to gnaw at his gut, and with every step, a significant feeling was growing.

Something was going to happen.

By the time they arrived in the hallway, his nervousness had peaked. He didn't know what was going to happen, but he knew that, whatever it was, would change him.

He stepped aside as Peter approached the door, using some little trick to pop the lock before he let Sylar push through.

He froze.

For a few long seconds, he didn't recognize the apartment he had walked into.

None of his telltale belongings were still present, at least not that he could see immediately. If it weren't for the same shape of the rooms, he might not have realized the place for what it was.

Furniture had been replaced; what was once impeccably and obsessively clean was gone, replaced with warm, dark-tinted woods and rich leathers. There few, if any, sharp edges to anything—everything, instead, was rounded and modern and comforting. Safe.

It was obvious that whoever had done this had taken great care to do so.

The countertops in the kitchen had been replaced, the cupboards switched out for something newer, less sterile and more homey. Even appliances had been replaced, something he had never been able to afford at the time of his living here.

He took a step inside, Peter following along close behind and, for some reason, closing the door behind them, though there was no need for privacy. He appreciated it all the same.

The floors were the same, but patches were covered by area rugs, soft, yet durable. A book lay open on the coffee table, pages-down, as if the reader had gotten up and would return at any moment, an empty wine glass beside it, the very bottom tinged a deep red with its former contents.

There were few personal effects on the walls, strangely enough—a few tasteful impersonal paintings, but no pictures that he could see. A glance into the bedroom showed a bed that spanned most of the tiny space, rich red-and-cream sheets rumpled, a loose tank top and pants lay folded near the end.

He was about to turn around and explore further when a slight shine caught his eye.

Resting idly on the bedside table was a small, golden ring.

His heart had stopped. Sylar was sure of it.

One tentative step, then another, and then he was carefully picking it up, inspecting the unmarked exterior. And then, hands shaking, he tilted the ring to catch the light streaming in from the window.

_I know how to make love stay._

" _No,_ " Sylar breathed.

His hand clenched around the ring and he burst from the room, moving with a purpose toward the far corner of the living room, the only unexplored area left. The rusting mirrored doors had been replaced by a mahogany door with a golden handle, unnoticeable at first when placed next to the dark textures of the walls. He desperately struggled to open it, heart somewhere around his stomach and falling lower by the second.

"Sylar?"

He didn't respond—couldn't.

The door was open, and everything he knew fell apart.

Beyond the short corridor, the room that had one been his obsession, filled with maps and diagrams and terrible, tempting books was purged. The curtains on a wide, clear window were parted, letting light in on toys stacked in a corner and a brightly colored chest, and an unusually high table with a padded, lowered compartment, railings along three of the edges. Below the table, a blue quilted bag rested on a shelf.

And, when he turned, he saw that the room that had once been the evidence of his transgressions was also cleared. It had been painted over with a soft shade of blue. Pushed into the corner, beneath a hanging mobile of glitter-coated, paper celestial cutouts was what finally shattered his world to pieces.

He fell to his knees, chest heaving as he struggled to bring oxygen into his lungs, hands holding the bars of the crib in a white-knuckled grip as his head bent and tears stung his eyes.

"Sy—lar..." Peter, who had obviously followed him, trailed off into silence.

He was gasping, spinning, falling into pieces— _he_ had done this. _He_ was the reason this house was empty, the reason that the woman he loved was not present.

The reason that his _son_ was not where he belonged.

He felt it as Peter crouched beside him, felt the hand that rested on his back, rubbing back and forth between his shoulder blades, warm and firm and _there_ as it had been since that very first day.

"Cry," Peter whispered.

"I—" he gasped.

"Don't argue. I don't even _know_ how many times you've seen me lose it, and all this time, you've never _once_ let go, yourself." The hand stilled. "Sylar, listen to me."

He couldn't.

He _wouldn't_.

He was _Sylar_ , he was _strong_ , and he would _never_ give in to such _weak_ , such _human_ things.

Peter's hand gripped the back of his shirt firmly, but his voice was soft.

" _Gabriel."_

And

He

Broke.

 

* * *

 

"I found something."

Sylar sat on the couch in the living room— _Claire's couch, Claire's living room, Claire's **apartment** —_his eyes swollen and red. He had forgotten what it was like to cry, to lose control so completely like that.

It had been years since he'd allowed that kind of release. Since _before_ the nightmare, even—long before. Perhaps before _Sylar_ even existed.

He had always abhorred the use of his name. He hated it; there was no real reason _why_ he did, he just _did._ Always had. Maybe because it was just so plain, so average, and he had always wanted to be unique. To be special.

However, to a certain, select few, his name stopped being a taboo. Instead, it become a tool the likes of no other, a tool that one could use to bend him to their bidding, and as such, he was very careful with who knew it.

Of course, there were those who abused it—those such as Angela Petrelli, who had seen _him_ as a tool, and Noah Bennet, who had seen him as a specimen. Elle, who used him like a toy, broke him, then cast him away. Linderman and Kaito Nakamura, neither of who he had truly _met_ , but hated by association of the company they kept. Even his own mother, who had twisted him and manipulated him to being her shadow, her puppet, her perfectly obedient son. And Chandra Suresh, of course—the man who had known him down to the very core.

Even fewer than those who wished to control him were those who actually wished to _help_ him. To this day, he had only ever met two—Claire Bennet and Peter Petrelli. The irony that both of them, at some point, had been his victims was _not_ lost on him.

He had never known, when he told Claire his name, just what she would become to him. At the time, he had thought her nothing more than a passing, fleeting infatuation, easily sated and shut down. But, when the girl refused to let him go, he found himself opening up to her in ways he had never opened up to anyone else. He was intrigued by her. Then he became enamored. And, before he knew it, he was enslaved.

But Claire had never used that leverage to her advantage. No; in fact, she didn't even seem _aware_ of the sway she held over him. Because, for the first time, someone _knew_ him completely and totally, and they weren't running. Instead, the girl was _dismissing_ his wrongs and drawing _closer_.

She was a fool, but so was he. And he loved her more than he had even thought himself _capable_.

And then there was Peter Petrelli.

His relationship with Peter was... a catastrophe, to be entirely honest. They had started out as enemies, night and day. However, after that first time, they had never been pitched directly at one another again, and they transitioned into something more along the lines of rivals. Peter was _good_ , Sylar was _bad,_ but in that sort of was that was just by habit, by association, and had very little (well, perhaps not _little_ ) to do with actions. Even when Sylar had turned full-fledged on Angela and Bennet and Claire, Peter had been nowhere to be found. Aside from that little mishap in the Stanton, they had barely even come into contact again- something they were both _glad_ of. Because even though Sylar wasn't exactly an evil, soul-crushing demon, he was still a cruel, vindictive bully who took great pleasure in his torments.

Then, something had happened, something neither of them had expected. Sylar had unknowingly become the center of Peter's world, and even after he had managed to escape that role, the memories lingered behind. Though they both tried to put the past in the past, the _past_ wasn't having it, and fate threw them together once more with a pat on the head and a demand to _play nice._

It hadn't worked out at well so first. But, now, Sylar found himself sitting in this room, his sinuses plugged and eyes swollen, possibly at one of the weakest moments of his _life_ , and the only person he had for company was some overenthusiastic, usually-optimistic-but-recently-PMSing, spoiled Italian _brat_ from Manhattan that used to be his arch enemy.

And now? Somehow, Sylar found the kid having wormed his way into the strange, disconcerting, _comforting_ slot of _best friend_.

So when Peter Petrelli said, "I found something", voice even and strangely solemn, he wasn't sure what to expect, since his life thus-far had already been some kind of roller coaster on steroids.

He definitely wasn't expecting what Peter handed him next.

Sylar took the simple silver picture frame without a word. Moments later, he was glad he hadn't tried to say anything, because he was _speechless._

The woman in the picture was reclined against the arm of a familiar leather couch. In her arms was a young child, _very_ newborn, he guessed, laying on her chest. A tiny hand reached up, anchored at the corner of the woman's mouth, which was turned upward in a small, wondrous, bittersweet smile. A comfortable golden glow was cast over them from a fireplace that crackled merrily just in the background.

On the front of the frame, a few tiny words were engraved that Sylar had to squint to read through his tired, swollen eyes— _Sarah & Noah Gray_.

It was Claire.

Sylar looked up, speechless, to the blank face of his friend. There were questions, _so many questions_ in Peter's eyes.

But he could already see the answer.

Because the child in the picture was undeniably _his_.

"What should I say?" He whispered.

Peter didn't look _angry_ so much as immeasurably _confused_. " _How?_ "

Sylar scoffed. "I don't really think that's the question you want to ask."

The younger man grimaced, looking at the picture that was still held tightly in Sylar's hand and back to his friend. "I mean... how is it even possible, Sylar? She was never _pregnant._ "

"She was," he murmured. "She very much was. Once before, and that day in the Stanton—I heard his heartbeat. Other than that, I don't know how she managed to hide it. I was... _dead._ "

"But—" Peter cut himself off, his expression falling. "But she _hated_ you. She even _killed_ you, once." Anger twisted the man's face. " _Did you—_ "

"How could you think that?" Sylar growled, hands clenching on the frame. "I already told you the story, Peter, and all of it was true. I _told_ you that I couldn't tell you everything,"

"Well, you didn't say that the girl you were talking about was my _niece!_ " Peter exclaimed. "That's kind of important, you know!"

"Well I'm _sorry_ ," the older man snapped. "But it was as much to protect _her_ as it was to protect _me_ , Peter."

The brunette bared his teeth, but there was something confused and betrayed in his eyes. "But... she lied to me. All this time, every _word_... was she _helping_ you, this entire time?"

"No! Will you listen to yourself?" Sylar stood quickly, pained and just as shocked by what he was holding as Peter was. "What happened between Claire and I had _nothing_ to do with my actions. Well..." his face fell. "Except for once. Though it might have happened anyway, but..."

" _What?_ "

He ducked his head. "She asked me not to. It was because I was selfish and... scared."

" _What are you talking about?"_

" _The reason I killed Nathan!_ " Sylar exploded.

Peter froze.

"Claire told me— _asked me—_ not to," he said in a rush. "But your mother told Claire that she had a dream—a dream that Matt Parkman was going to save Nathan's life. She also had a dream that I was going to die. I thought that if I could prevent one of those dreams from being true, I could prevent the other one." Sylar grimaced. "I didn't want to. I knew it was going to hurt her, but I wasn't about to sacrifice myself for him, not when I had a son to protect. And it ended up that it didn't matter. _Because_ I killed Nathan, I was shoved behind his face. I didn't know. If I had, I never would have done it."

The younger man stared at him.

"Peter..." Sylar searched for the words, but came up blank.

"All this time," Peter whispered. "It was _Claire._ All this time, she'd been lying to all of us, hiding. Oh, god, and my mother knew." His hands came up to cover his face. "God, she offered to protect _Claire_. She had that—that _free pass_ , and then... then she said that she took Claire for the summer, but whenever I visited the penthouse she wasn't there, but I just thought she was busy, and... but she was _pregnant..._ "

Peter trailed off into silence, lowering his hands, looking at the picture that rested in Gabriel's. "Is that your son?"

Sylar's face fell, and he stared hard at the picture of the two people he held most dear. "I... don't know, to be honest. I... I _think_ so."

"You've never seen him," Peter realized, eyes widening. "Have you?"

He shook his head.

" _Jesus_ ," the man whispered. "Where _is_ he?"

Another shake of the head, _helpless_ under the force of the truth, his fingers tracing the shape of Claire's face on the glass. "I don't know."

"I..." Peter's fists clenched. "I have to..."

"Just go," Sylar said softly, looking down at the picture. "It's okay, Peter. I... I won't come back tonight."

Footsteps.

Sylar set the frame down on the rounded coffee table.

When he looked up, Peter was gone.

 

* * *

 

He sat cross-legged in front of the wall, just waiting.

Before he came to this world, he'd never noticed just how empty the city sky had been at night, when the starts were drowned out by all the lights.

Now, with just a few scattered streetlamps on, Sylar could almost imagine that every star in the universe was right up there, waiting for someone to come and say hello.

He wondered if this nightmare, if that's what it was, would only apply to this world, or any and _all_ of the rest that might have existed in the universe.

Surely he couldn't be the _last_ living thing, _anywhere, ever._

His shoulder was tapped and he looked, and a carefully wrapped package fell into his lap. "Happy Birthday."

Oh, yeah. _Peter._

"It's not my birthday," he replied automatically, perplexed by the spontaneous and unexpected statement. In fact, he hadn't expected Peter to be here at _all_.

"Yeah, I know."

Sylar pulled up the tape that held the newspaper-wrapping together, extracting a book.

"You just wore out your other copy, and I saw that one, digging around."

_Pillars of the Earth_ , he read. How many times had he read this book, now? Hundreds, probably, but for some reason, it never seemed to get old.

The fact that Peter had noticed and had brought him this was... he didn't have a word for how it made him feel, really. But he appreciated the gesture, truly.

Very rarely in his life had people performed genuine acts of kindness for him when they were not expecting something in return.

After their fight earlier, Sylar recognized it for what it was—a peace offering.

"I appreciate you... being patient with me," the man started with some measure of difficulty. "Keeping me sane."

"That's very kind of you, Peter," he said quietly. "Thank you."

The brunette nodded his understanding, turning back to the wall, despite the late hour, and picking up one of the sledgehammers.

"You wanna know something weird?" Sylar asked, continuing without being prompted. "Every time you pick that thing up, I think you're gonna hit me with it... really hard."

Peter laughed quietly—a bit bitterly, but honestly amused. "That _is_ weird. Because every time I pick it up, I feel like I'm gonna hit you with it, too. _Really hard._ "

"Why?" _Aside from the fact that I killed your brother and corrupted your niece, that same murdered brother's innocent daughter. Beside the fact that I killed you once, and tried to kill your mother multiple times. And that I've killed your friends. And that I got you stuck here. But you know I'm sorry for all of that, so... I don't understand._

He sighed. "Because you _are_ who you are."

Sylar stared at him, more than a little hurt.

Peter continued. "I _wish_ I could accept your apologies. But if I forgive _you_... then I'm not doing right by _him._ "

"Nathan," Sylar said softly. "If you let go of your anger, you're afraid you'll lose him forever?"

Peter hesitated, face falling slightly before he nodded.

"So you've held onto it this _entire_ time?"

Peter shrugged, helpless. "I feel it slipping away... but when I look at you... and I see you killing him..." Peter fixed him with a raw, wounded look, so much like a hurt animal in its intensity that Sylar stilled in reflexive response. "You took my brother away from me."

Sylar closed the gap, walking toward the man he had come to call his best friend, his _only_ friend, standing beside him as he slammed the sledgehammer into the wall time and time again, just like he had for the past _countless_ days, months, years.

"We've been here I-don't-know-how-many years, _together._ " Sylar frowned at the man. _Couldn't he see? Couldn't he see how different he was? That he wasn't that man anymore? That he was hardly fit to even be called **Sylar** anymore?_ "I've _changed._ I've _repented_. I'm never gonna hurt anyone ever again! And all this time... you were afraid to let me out."

Peter's jaw set, and he swung harder.

" _Peter!"_ He stepped between the man and the wall, and _goddammit,_ his friend was going to _listen_ to him, or Sylar was going to try his damnedest to get him to hear what he had to say. They had been through all of this _together_ , and he wasn't about to lose this friendship now because of the past when they had both so obviously moved past it.

"I'm not that guy anymore, Peter," Sylar said softly. "You _know_ that."

Peter took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, the words slipping out with the last of his air. " _I know._ " He nodded slightly, breathing again, his voice stronger. "I know you're not."

He pulled back the hammer and slammed it into the wall—

— _and a chunk of brick fell to the concrete._

The two men shared a startled look. Excitement and anticipation starting to build, along with a buzzing hope that was bubbling up from somewhere deep underneath.

Sylar scrambled to grab a hammer, and the two pounded at the wall, encouraged by each shard of brick that fell away, their spirits _soaring_ when a bright light started to stream through the cracks, _and finally, after so long, after so much pain and agony and after all the fights and the screaming and the tears and the hate and love and fear and friendship—_

_—they were **free.**_

__

__

__


	15. Brave Little Liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x18 "Brave New World"

Everything was so confusing.

Claire didn't know what real anymore. This complex web of omitted truths and carefully spun lies was taking control of her life in the most forceful of ways.

First Lydia, then the train wreck at the House of Mirrors—when had everyone become such accomplished masters of deception? Her father, who continually lied to her, was _still_ revealing secrets about the Company that had disbanded _two years ago._ And then there was Gretchen, who her father had manipulated into making Claire think she actually _cared_ about her, under the pretense of giving her a normal life.

If her father was trying to arrange her _relationships_ , or all things, he _had_ to be desperate. That, and acting on his own—Angela never would have taken part in something so low.

So, what was real and what was fake? Did Gretchen actually ever care about her, or did her father set that up from the very beginning?

Still, as Claire found herself buried thirty feet below the ground line in a _souvenir trailer,_ of all things, she couldn't bring herself to be as angry as she deserved to be.

"Dad?"

"I'm here."

She pulled out her phone, the screen lighting up, _No Service_ plastered across the top of the screen. "There's no signal," she muttered quietly.

"Claire, you okay?"

 _Of course. I heal, why wouldn't I be?_ "Yeah, you?"

"Yeah. Here, help me get these ropes off."

Using her phone as a light, she made her way over to her father in the dark, fingers deftly untying the knot.

"Is that a lantern over there?"

She scrambled over mountains of displaced plush toys to grab a tiny, battery-powered lantern, turning the switch and bathing the small room in a cheap yellow glow. Grabbing the chintzy handle and holding it up so she could see better, Claire inspected their surroundings.

"We're buried," Bennet said unnecessarily.

Claire had figured that out, if the groaning of the flimsy aluminum frame was any indication. That, and the pitch-black darkness outside.

"How far down do you think we are?"

"I don't know. Felt like we dropped forty or fifty feet." Bennet was struggling to stand, but Claire was still to angry to want to help him with his task.

"Hello?" She called instead. "Can anyone hear us?"

"Anybody hear us?"

No answer, of course, other than the quiet trickling of dirt falling through the trailer's seams, still not quite settled.

Claire set the lantern down, moving to the door, throwing her body against it and getting only a shower of dirt in return. " _Help!_ Hello, can anybody hear us?"

Of course there was no response, no matter how much yelling they tried.

Eventually, Bennet gave in to exhaustion, but Claire was determined, finding a crowbar and chiseling away at the dirt outside the sliver of door she'd managed to open. She was making little to no headway—not that she expected she would.

"We're too deep," Bennet sighed.

She knew it was true.

"No, we're not," she replied stubbornly. "We could dig our way out. Might take a while, but—"

A barrage of dirt falling through the ceiling cut her off, covering the contents of the trailer in dust and pebbles.

"We'll run out of oxygen _way_ before that," the man insisted. "The more we dig, the faster we'll run out of air." A tortured expression crossed his usually-handsome face. "Or, more precisely, the faster _I'll_ run out of air. Your lungs will keep regenerating."

A cold feeling settled in Claire's stomach. "What are you saying?"

Bennet pursed his lips, shaking his head with a solemn look. "It's futile."

Claire scowled. "What do you _mean, futile?_ We have to find _some_ way out of here!"

Bennet let out a long sigh, taking a few slow, heavy steps toward her. "I think I know why Samuel put you down here with me." He paused, breathing heavier than normal. "So you could watch me die."

Claire fixed him with a blank look, but on the inside, she was horrified. Because that _had_ to be it.

"No. No, that's not true," she replied.

"Don't deny it, Claire-bear," the man reprimanded quietly, moving toward the opposite end of the trailer so he could sit down. "You're a smart girl."

"We have to _focus_. We have to think of _something_!" She was looking for a way out, _any_ was out, but that solid, locked-in feeling told her what she already knew—they were _trapped_.

"Claire—"

"Dad, you have a plan," the blonde insisted. "I _know_ you have a plan! _What is it?_ "

"There _is_ no plan," he breathed. "Now, I need to talk to you about what you saw up there in the House of Mirrors."

Claire was pacing, claustrophobic, _desperate_ and irritated because of it. " _Why?_ "

"Because you're gonna survive this."

Her mouth opened in silent protest, shaking her head as he continued.

"If it takes a _month_ , you _will_ get out of here..." He shook his head. " _I'm_ not going to."

"That's not true!" she shouted.

" _Yes, it is_."

" _That's not true!"_

"And there are things that I need to say to you. What you saw up there, _all of it_ , it's _all_ true. But it's not the _whole_ truth."

It was making her angry, his _certainty_ that he wouldn't make it out. Hadn't he ever heard of thinking positive? Even if he couldn't, _she would get them out of here._

_She had to._

"Dad, you don't have to do this—"

"No! We are all products of our own experiences, good and bad." He gestured to himself aimlessly. "Everything that's happened to me has _made_ me who I am, but it can't explain what I've _become_."

" _You are my dad_ ," Claire growled, pointing a finger directly at him, angry, hurt that he would have such little faith in her. "For better or for worse—"

" _Don't protect me, Claire!_ " the man shouted, not in that dad-voice he always had, but in something inexplicably more raw, more _honest_ than she had ever heard from him. "That's _my_ job!"

"To protect me from the rest of the world?" his daughter snapped in return, terrified, horrified tears creeping up on her.

"Yes, exactly," Bennet muttered, and the completely devoted, loving, _accepting_ look that he gave her in that moment sent Claire into tears.

"And _that's_ why you believe that people like _me_ can't live out in the open?" she asked, voice shaking.

The man with the horn-rimmed glasses shook his head, shoulders slumping. "It doesn't matter _what_ I believe anymore," he breathed, "Because the whole world is about to find out about you. We can thank Samuel for that."

Claire sniffled, eyes welling over. "Maybe it won't be so _bad_ ," she whispered. "Maybe the world is more ready than you think it is. Things _change!_ "

"Sure," Bennet replied quietly with some measure of derision. "There might be curiosity for a while, but all it takes is _one_ Sylar, and then the pitchforks come out and all hell breaks loose." Bennet shook his head, anger rising in his weakening voice. "I've _seen_ it! They will _turn_ on you, Claire! It's human nature."

Tears rolled down her cheeks. _One Sylar? You **made** Sylar. Maybe it can be avoided, if we're careful. If it can be controlled, maybe we can do it! And even if they do turn on us... we're stronger. We would win._

"You're right," Bennet added. " _Things_ change. But people _don't_."

The sobs that had been building in her chest for so long were forced out, the words she had been meaning to say for so long following behind and escaping before she could pull them back. "But _I_ did," she whispered, her legs buckling as she fell into a sit.

Bennet blinked, confused and alarmed by his daughter's actions. "What do you mean, Claire-bear?"

" _I_ changed," she repeated, sniffling. "Right under your nose, and you never noticed... I never got to tell you, but I was trying, and—"

"Claire, _what are you talking about?_ " he demanded. "You're the same. You're right here, you're my _child—_ "

" _But now I have one of my own!_ " Claire exclaimed.

Bennet froze, even his labored breathing coming to a halt. "What?"

Claire closed her eyes, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her forehead against them. "I had a baby, Dad."

Noah Bennet spluttered for a long time before he managed to form any words. "Claire, I think I would have _noticed_ if my daughter was _pregnant!_ "

"Not if I was in New York, you wouldn't," she whispered.

The man struggled for something to say, his eyes wide and alarmed. "But—you were only there for five months. That's not enough time—"

"It is if I was already pregnant before I left," the blonde girl corrected him.

Bennet took in a strangled breath.

"Dad, please don't have a heart attack." Her shoulders started shaking as her tears started in earnest. "This is already fast enough. Please, calm down."

The man stopped, staring at his daughter. "Claire-bear, I don't understand. How did this happen? What—I mean, where _is_ the kid? Who knows about him?"

"It happened... because I was careless," the young woman started quietly. "I didn't even think I _could_ get pregnant. Then I found out I _was_ and the government was hunting us, so I had to be careful, I had to _protect_ him! And then Angela called me before my free pass was up, because she had a dream about me, so she arranged things... and when Building 26 was shut down, I just thought that I had to leave so no one would know, because no one _could_ know, so I went to New York and I lived _there._ I had the baby in August and..." she sniffled quietly. "I knew I couldn't bring him with me. I left him with Rene. The Haitian," she corrected quietly at her father's confused look.

Bennet's eyes widened. "Let me get this straight. You had a _baby_ and you left it with _The Haitian?_ Claire, he's my partner—he was with me most of the time. There sure as _hell_ wasn't a kid—"

"He has a wife," Claire cut in. "In New York. Her name is Annalise. She's very kind, Dad, and her identity is under wraps, and I knew that if my son was going to be safe _anywhere_ , it would be with Rene."

" _A son_ ," Bennet whispered. "Claire... how could this have happened? Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped you!"

Claire shook her head vigorously, lifting her chin to rest it atop her legs. "No, dad. You would have had an aneurism, then you would have disowned me, and... I couldn't take that chance. I thought it would just be safer to go. I had to protect my baby. His father... he isn't exactly..."

"Who?" Noah's voice was quiet, serious and sinister.

"Dad—"

"Claire," he said, his eyes moving from side to side as pieces started to add up in his head, constructing the past year in his mind in an entirely new context. "Oh, _god_ , Claire. _No._ No, _please tell me you didn't—"_

"It was an accident," she whispered, the tears coming harder, now.

" _I'll kill him,_ " Bennet whispered, voice rising. " _That son of a bitch, I'll **kill** him!"_

" _Dad!"_ Claire exclaimed, getting to her feet, arms spread wide as she screamed. "I'm _sorry!_ I didn't mean for this to happen, but I've done everything I can! I've done _everything_ for my son, and I've kept up with everything _you_ want, too! I _left my baby behind_ so I could come here and get an education, _for you._ I don't need a job, Dad. I don't need money, okay? I already have an apartment, I have enough money from Angela to keep me comfortable until I can find a job somewhere, and if I _do_ go to college, I want it to be _there,_ close to home!"

" _Sylar,_ Claire!" Bennet roared. "Did you _forget_ everything he did to you? God, I should have _known_ when I saw you crying over his ashes on the beach that day. I should have _known_ when you winced at the mention of his name. But you _hated_ him, Claire. I just don't understand _how—"_

" _Because I love him!"_

Bennet went terribly still, his eyes narrowed as he whispered, chest heaving, "You don't mean that."

"I _do_ ," Claire replied, running her hand over her face to swipe away the tear tracks on her cheeks. "And he loves _me_ , Dad. I—I don't know what will happen, now. I thought he was _dead,_ all this time, and then, now he's _alive_ again, and he finally came to me, and I was trying to tell you when I brought the coffee, but—"

"He _went_ to you?"

"Dad, will you just _listen to me?_ " the girl whispered.

Bennet shut up.

"Yes, he came to me. I was so angry, though, and I tried to send him away. He said that he couldn't kill, and that Samuel said I was supposed to help, somehow. He had this tattoo..." She touched her finger gently to her own forearm. "It was of me."

At Bennet's silent shudder, she glared at him.

"He said he didn't choose what showed up," she continued. "But that it was destiny showing him what he needed to do. That he needed a human connection because he didn't want to be alone, and I was supposed to fix him so he could be human again. But I was still so angry that I stabbed him in the eye with a pencil—"

Bennet smiled against his will, and Claire unconsciously mimicked his expression at his obvious amusement and approval.

"And went after Gretchen. He said he'd kidnapped her," she added with a frown. "When I got to my room, I found her and untied her, but he made it look like he was still after us. So we escaped and hid in a maintenance closet. Gretchen and I started talking..." the girl deliberately skipped over a part of the story at that, finally shaking her head. "Essentially, what it led to was a conversation of how I used my ability to make excuses. And maybe that's what Sylar was doing, too. And then Gretchen said that maybe, to get back to normal, Sylar needed to get rid of all his powers."

"Not _bloody_ likely—" Bennet growled under his breath, and Claire didn't have the heart to berate him for it, since his breaths were getting shorter.

"That's what I thought, too. But then Gretchen shifted into Sylar. And I asked him what he did with her, and he said he never took her. Then he got up and left, but I followed..."

Her face fell.

"Go on."

She looked up in surprise, hope suddenly jolting through her at her father's patient expression.

"So, I followed," she continued. "And I asked him if he was leaving, just like that. And he said that he was. And then he told me..."

"Yes?"

A tiny, bittersweet smile twisted her lips. "He told me, _'Take care of Noah'._ "

Confusion was the master of Bennet's expression for a long moment, before, all at once, a stunned look took over. "You named your son after me?"

Claire nodded, sniffling even as her tiny smile grew.

Bennet was silent, the quietness hurting Claire's ears for the full minute it spanned. Finally, though, _finally_ , a long sigh escaped the man, and he held out his arms to his daughter.

Claire sank onto the aluminum crate her father was seated on, slipping into his arms as her sobs began to escalate.

_I can't lose him now. Not now. He hasn't met Noah yet, and if my son isn't going to have **his** father, he's sure as hell going to have **mine.**_

"I'm so sorry, Daddy. I'm sorry, but I can't regret my baby. I love him. I love _both_ of them."

"Shh, Claire-bear... Claire, honey, come on..."

But there was no stopping her until her tears had run their course. It took a while, as there was a desperate vortex of built-up emotions that had yet to escape, but despite the fact that their time was limited, they were patient.

Finally her tears had slowed enough so she could talk, Bennet holding her hand, his thumb stroking back and forth over the backs of her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You don't have to... apologize," Bennet replied, his words becoming quieter, slower. "We all do... stupid, emotional things in our lives. Even though I didn't realize it... I've watched you grow into a beautiful, strong woman. And you... you make me proud, Claire."

"You're not angry?" Her voice trembled as she asked it.

"I am... a little bit, Claire. At him. Because... he doesn't deserve a wonderful girl like you... after all the terrible things he's done. But... you have the freedom... to love whoever you want. I can't stop that... even though I might want to."

A tremulous smile took over Claire's face, quickly falling, though, under the force of her emotions. "I wish I had a picture of Noah to show you, Dad. I have just the one at my apartment, from just after he was born- he's so beautiful. I haven't seen him in so long, but Rene says he's smart, _so_ smart, just like his dad, and..."Her laugh sounded more like a sob. "He looks so much like him, but he looks like me, too. He's got his dad's eyes and his mouth, and... I knew I couldn't tell you, even though I wanted to. You would have taken one look at him and known who his father was right away."

"I hope... you weren't planning on keeping... him a secret forever, Claire," Benet said slowly. "From your family, I mean... your mother... she'll want to meet him."

" _You_ can meet him, too, once we're out of here," the green-eyed girl promised tearfully.

"Oh, Claire," the man with the horn-rimmed glasses sighed. "You're going to make... a wonderful mother. In fact... I bet you already are. You... chose the high road, for your son... that's more than most parents can say." Bennet's hand fell away from hers. "Having a child... changes everything. When I said... I was the product of my experiences, I left out... the most important part. _You._ You can into my life... and you changed _everything._ "

Claire, seeing the light in her father's eyes begin to fade, started obsessively straightening the front of his jacket, just to have something to do, to temper the energy rush from the terrified adrenaline that was wracking her body. She shook her head, the tears threatening to take over again.

He was dying.

"The man you saw up there... in those memories... could never have died a happy man, but... I can. Because of you."

"No, no, no, no, no!" Claire exclaimed quietly, her face twisting with grief. "Don't _say_ that. _Don't say that."_

"Try to find a way... to forgive me, Claire."

" _No_ ," she begged, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I don't _need_ to forgive you. I need to _thank_ you. I am who I am _because_ of you." Her voice was taken over by the harsh sound of sobs, her hand moving to touch her father's cheek, the way she had done countless times when she was just a baby, herself. " _I love you._ "

Bennet's weakened fingers stroked her cheek, a tiny smile on his face, but a fierce, loving look in his eyes. "I love you too, Claire-bear. That's why I want you to... promise me something. That you'll _hide._ "

"What?" Claire asked, surprised.

"The world... doesn't have to know... about you. You... you can stay in... you can blend in. You can pass, Claire... you know how to do it."

_You're going to **show** them._

And Claire knew that, _no_ , she couldn't hide. She couldn't blend in.

"Dad," she said suddenly, filled with a new sense of conviction. "We don't have to do this. We can find a way out!"

"I want you to... _promise_ me... you'll stay hidden, Claire. _Please..._ it's my dying wish, Claire."

Her face was overtaken my agony. Because, even if it _was,_ she couldn't do it.

" _Please._ "

"No."

" _Promise me._ "

"No."

But Bennet's eyes were closing behind his trademark pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

" _Dad?_ No. _No!_ Dad? Dad, no, _no!_ " She scrambled to her feet, slipping on cheap, overturned goods and piles of dirt as she ran to the door, _clawing_ at the dirt that restricted them.

She was going to get them out, no matter what it took.

_Claire couldn't lose him, too._

Suddenly, water started to burst through the wall, murky with mud, and Claire nearly howled with despair—now what, they were going to _drown_ , as _well_ as suffocate?

At least until the water began to take the shape of a body.

" _Tracy?_ " Claire asked breathlessly, relief and despair flooding through her at the sight of the older woman. "I don't know what to do! He's _dying!_ "

"Not if I can help it," the woman replied steadily, following Claire to where her father was seated. "Noah? _Noah!_ "

" _Tra...cy?_ "

"We have to get you through thirty feet of dirt," Tracy said, taking the man's glasses and handing them to Claire, who shoved them inside her jacket. "You ready?"

"Yeah..."

Tracy and Claire hefted the man to his feet, nearly dragging him to the other end of the trailer. The older woman looked uncertainly at the tiny hole in the wall, then back at the younger blonde that she had come to see like a little sister.

"You're gonna owe me one," she warned the incoherent man.

"He will, as soon as we get out of here," Claire replied.

Then the woman smirked slightly, and, stepping toward the hold in the wall, her hand liquefying into pure, untainted water, she muttered, "I hope you can swim."

 

* * *

 

Sylar's eyes snapped open.

It was completely dark, and at first, he thought that he was still trapped. Then he reached out, and his fingers touched a solid surface, rough and cold.

_That's the wall from Parkman's basement!_

His eyes narrowed. So Parkman had— _what?_ Knocked him out and shoved him in a corner, than built a brick wall to lock him in? Well, shit.

_Nice._

And then Sylar noticed something strange.

Pure, raw _power_ coursed through his body, much in the same way it had done all those years before. It was almost as if he still had his...

He flung out a hand in reflex and felt his telekinesis respond eagerly, pushing and shoving against the bricks, which were putting up an admirable fight. However, the cement hadn't had a chance to fully and completely set, not to mention that the wall was only a few layers thick, and it exploded outward in a shower of red dust, shaking the house on its foundation.

_Light._

Though the air was caked with powdered red, Sylar couldn't mistake the light that shone through it, as well as the still somehow-familiar silhouette of Parkman's basement.

_I'm free. It really **was** a dream._

He stumbled from his makeshift cell, re-enhanced ears assaulted by the sound of explosive coughing. His eyes scanned the room, finally settling on a disheveled and victorious-looking Peter.

"How long has it been, really?" He asked quietly.

The man blinked in surprise, as if he'd forgotten that _he_ was the one to insist the nightmare was just that—a _nightmare—_ the entire time. He glanced at his watch, a little digital thing that Sylar knew was surprisingly accurate, but still had nothing on the musical precision of an antique timepiece.

"Half a day. _Maybe_."

Though he knew it would be something like that, he couldn't help the shock. All those thoughts that he would be trapped, alone, _forever_ , were still so fresh in his mind. All of his musings were suddenly unfounded- wondering what Claire's life would be like without him, wondering what Noah would look like, only now to realize that he was still just a baby—

—it was almost enough to topple his world.

Almost.

But, now, he had something that he never could have had in the nightmare.

He had a chance to fix it.

"Feels like we were in there for _years_."

Peter let out a long sigh. "Yeah."

Sylar frowned—did that mean that he was still a killer, here on the outside? Did that mean that everything he learned on the _inside_ was gone? It didn't _feel_ like it, but how could he be sure?

"Does that make it any less real?"

Peter stared at him, and Sylar didn't have to hear an answer from the younger man to know _exactly_ what he thought about that.

_Of course not._

Instead, he said, "Let's go save Emma."

"Yeah," Sylar replied. _Emma. Peter's girl. I'm going to save her._

_I'm going to **save** her._

They headed to the stairs, ready to face Parkman and whatever else they had to if it meant getting out, only to find themselves faced with Eli, the Carnival's resident multiplier.

"Sorry to break up the _love fest_ ," Eli sneered. "But I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen."

Sylar glanced at Peter, taken aback by the look of pure _loathing_ that had crossed his face. It was a look he hadn't seen for _years_ —

Not years. _Hours._

That was going to take some getting used to.

Peter's eyes caught his, and Sylar gave a short nod, feeling the two multipliers that had appeared behind them. "You can't stop us," the younger man growled.

"Oh, I think we can," the lead man replied. "We have you outnumbered."

Sylar's arm shot out, the two clones behind him smashing into the wall and fading away. The one on the stairs above them, he held steadily, putting pressure on his windpipe- enough to distract him from making more clones. At least, he hoped.

"But not overpowered," Sylar scoffed. "Peter, go. I've got him."

When the younger Petrelli had gone ahead, Sylar fixed the terrified man with a sneer of his own. "You really thought you could stop us?"

"Samuel said... you couldn't kill!" The man choked.

Sylar frowned—while it was true, he hadn't been able to bring himself to kill, he suddenly realized that he no longer _wanted_ to. This man, whoever he was, was acting on orders. Sylar didn't know him, didn't know his motivations, and once that wouldn't have mattered.

But when he thought about the man having a family, and how killing him would force him to abandon them, _it made all the difference._

"Samuel was mistaken."

He stepped forward, knocking the man out with a solid punch, forcing him up the staircase and letting him fall onto his back in the kitchen. He followed him up, floored by the discovery of his newfound freedom from the Hunger.

 _So this is what it feels like to live without the constant temptation,_ he thought, impressed and elated.

"What the hell is _he_ doing here?"

The pure _rage_ in that voice made Sylar turn—

—only to see the enraged face of Matt Parkman, eyes covered by a veil of hatred so intense that it made him take a step back.

_Of course. On the outside, I'm still a monster._

"What the hell is he doing out?" Matt growled, looking to Peter, who was crouched by his side, fingers examining his knee. " _You_ did this."

" _It's a long story._ "

Their voices echoed in unison, and Sylar fought the urge to laugh. When had he and Peter become so... connected? So familiar with each other that they were thinking the same thoughts and communicating without words? It was strange, but it was... nice. To feel like he had a friend.

Because, inevitably, that's what they had become.

"But right now, we need to know what Samuel is planning," Peter cut in without missing a beat. "When and _where_."

" _Thousands_ of people are in danger, Matt," Sylar added with a frown.

"Get in his head, Matt," the younger finished with a gesture to the blacked-out Eli. "Tell us what you see."

"Why? So you guys can run off and be _superheroes_ together?" Parkman barked with a vindictive smirk.

Peter's eyes narrowed.

"This is ridiculous," the cop muttered. "Peter, come on. He's a _monster._ "

The brunette shook his head, disgusted and disappointed, turning away from the man he had considered a friend and making his way to the fallen multiplier.

"I can't believe you'd actually _trust_ him!"

"You want something done..." he growled to himself.

Sylar's finger twitched, spinning Eli in place for Peter to get better access. A long sigh escaped the younger of the two, and Peter tilted his head, repeating aloud everything he read. "Samuel's gonna show the world his powers... New York City... Central Park... _tonight!_ "

Peter turned, sending a wide-eyed glance to Sylar, the fear easily reflected there, and the elder knew that there was something Peter hadn't said. Something that he was missing.

"What does he mean, _show his power?_ "

Peter stood, his voice shaking slightly, horrified. "He's gonna open up the ground. Kill them all. _Bury_ them."

Alarm rushed through his body- New York, like it or not, was the place they both had grown up. Their _home._ And, with Emma playing the cello, drawing in _thousands_ of people, any one of the people killed could be someone they knew.

Someone they cared about.

Swallowing his revulsion, Sylar muttered, "That sounds like a plan I'd come up with back in the day."

"You say that like it wasn't _yesterday!_ " Parkman exclaimed.

Sylar turned to him, surprised and a little discouraged. The thought that only yesterday, he had still been that terrible person, the very _monster_ that Parkman referred to, was terrifying. Would he switch back just as quickly? Would the Hunger suddenly snap on like a switch, leaving a trail of blood and bodies in its wake?

_I won't let it._

"I'm not that person anymore, Matt," he said quietly. "I know it's hard to understand."

Parkman stared at him, and Sylar felt his friend's hand on his arm, attempting to tug him away. "We got what we needed. Let's go."

"You're not going anywhere! If you leave with Sylar, people are gonna end up _dead_. And that'll be on _you_. I can't let that happen."

" _Let's go,_ " Peter insisted, and Sylar could practically hear the churning of his thoughts, muttering, _We don't have time for this, we have to go or we'll be too late, we have to save Emma. Have to save **all** of them_.

Peter repeated his words, but a heavy feeling swept over him, and despite his internal understanding that he should listen, he found he couldn't. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you talking about?" The younger man's eyes were wide.

"That would be me."

Two heads turned to look at the former cop.

"See, I can still push a thought." He scowled at them both. "I told you, Peter, I'm _not_ letting him out of here."

"Matt, you have to," the younger of the two insisted quietly. "I need him to be with me. I already told you that. I trust him!"

"Sylar _killed_ your brother, Peter," Matt growled, and Peter winced in response to the carelessly thrown— _and terribly true—_ words. "He _killed_ Nathan."

Peter took in a deep breath, grief washing through him, and the still very _Nathan_ part of Sylar insisted that he step in. _Protect him, Sylar. You're the only one that can._

"I've repented!" Sylar insisted.

Matt's face twisted with an unimpressed, disbelieving look. "Oh. Yeah. During the _nightmare!"_ He laughed bitterly. "Right. 'Cause that lasted all of, _what_ , a couple _hours?_ "

"Not to _us_ , Matt," Peter said quietly. "That was _five years._ "

The man was stunned, but still not buying it.

"Look, you heard what Samuel's planning. We can _stop_ him."

"I don't understand you to understand what happened in the nightmare," the elder nearly whispered. _An empty world, the only one alive, hatred, anger, despair. A remodeled apartment. Falling apart. Secrets torn from his soul, left open for Peter to read._ "And I don't expect you to forgive me."

"Good! 'Cause that'll _never_ happen!"

 _I have to convince him. I have to make him see it._ "I've done so much wrong to so many people," Sylar continued. "Just give me a chance to redeem myself."

The man shook his head wordlessly, but there was doubt somewhere in his mind, and they both could sense it.

" _Matt._ I've been inside of your head, so I have a pretty good idea of what it takes to be a good person." _Husband and father. Janice and the kid._

_Claire and Noah._

"Go inside mine... and _you_ make the call."

Silence. From the corner of his eye, he saw Peter nodding enthusiastically and encouragingly. Despite everything that Sylar had done to him, everything he had done to his loved ones, _Peter Petrelli had faith in him._

It was better than anything he ever could have hoped for.

Matt said nothing to indicate his decision, but he didn't have to. The man struggled to stand, his hands holding tightly to his chair, and Matt began his inspection.

_Every empty day twisted with soul-eating loneliness, every night plagued by fear and horror. He was alone, and then he was not, his only company in the form of Peter's hatred. Agreeing to help his escape, but still filled with doubts. Peter's apartment, glasses of water, telling stories and talking late into the night, happening more than once. Slowly becoming friends._

_Facing the apartment—confused at first, then alarmed, and then **crushed.** He missed them so much that it was eating him alive, and he promised himself that if he ever got out, he would fix **everything,** even the unfixable. But he would do it, or he would try until his stolen abilities gave in to the test of time._

_He loved her. He would do anything for her._

_**Do you see it, Parkman?** _

Not his voice.

_**Nathan?** _

_**I know it's hard to believe, but it isn't a trick. Give him a chance. I know that he can do it when Peter's on his side.** _

_**I don't want to. This is probably just some trick that he's putting on.** _

_**A trick? Parkman, there's no trick in the world that would make me forget that time I had to carry you all the way to Primatech. Or did you forget that?** _

_**You said we would never speak of that again! Wait—oh. So it's really you?** _

_**It's really me.** _

_**And you know about what he's doing, Nathan? With Claire?** _

_**He loves her more than anyone else would ever be capable, and he can be there for her. That's all I've ever asked for. I have faith in him, Parkman. And you should, too.** _

Matt Parkman's ability retreated, his eyes left wide and confused.

"You see it," Sylar whispered, and of that, he was completely certain. He held up a hand, open and unthreatening. "Right here."

Parkman's eyes narrowed. "No. What I saw was inside your _twisted_ mind." He took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "That wasn't your heart."

Sylar swallowed—it wasn't a victory, but it wasn't a failure. He could _show_ Parkman that he had changed. But, first the man had to let him _try_.

"I can prove it. Just give me a chance."

Another tense silence.

"You need to _trust us_ , Matt," Peter cut in.

_Us. Not me, **us.**_

The man's head fell, his eyes locked on the floor of his kitchen. "...fine. Just get—get the hell out of my home."

"Let's go," Peter said quietly, his hand on Sylar's arm as he led him out the front door.

Once they were standing on the well-manicured lawn, Sylar held out his hand for Peter to take, closing his eyes as the man sifted through the vast assortment of powers to find the one he needed— _flight_.

"You need a directory for those," the man mumbled, a slight smirk twisting his mouth as he pulled away his hand. "There's so many of them."

"At a terrible price—"

"Don't start." Peter fixed him with a solid _look._ "You have a compass, right?"

It seemed like a million years ago, but it was only _yesterday_ that he was running from those gates, ink on his arm and a compass in his hand. And, speaking of which...

Sylar rolled up his sleeve, only partially surprised to see that the portrait of Claire had gone.

 _You made a connection. You don't need that anymore,_ Nathan whispered into the back of his mind.

_But I still need **her.**_

With a shake of his head, his hand plunged into his pocket, pulling out the tiny brass cylinder. "How are we going to work this, Peter? It's not like we can stop every few miles and make sure we're going the right direction. You're going to have to keep up."

"Way ahead of you," the man answered with a wide grin, pulling up his own shirt sleeve to reveal a small, spinning compass in _ink_.

"How did you get that?"

"It was a gift," Peter snorted. "It showed up again the other day. I think they've been trying to call me there. Now, they probably wished they'd told me to stay away."

Sylar's lips twitched. "No need to share, then. I was always terrible at it."

"Surprisingly, so was I."

"I know."

Peter looked at him, but there was no anger there this time; just a small, bittersweet smile. "Let's go save Emma."

And, with a quiet understanding, Sylar echoed, "Let's go save the world."

 

* * *

 

With so many people milling about, it had been easy for Claire and Bennet to slip in unnoticed. The unsuspecting crowds were churning with noise and anticipation as Claire and her father split up, both making their way backstage.

She ran through to the main tent as fast as she could, starting in without waiting for her father as backup. She knew that if anyone knew these people, it was _her._

"Look, I know what he told you about tonight," she said as they protested her presence. "That you're coming out and that you're going to be able to live out in the open, and _trust me_ , there is nobody that wants that more than me! But this is _not_ your coming out party, this is _his_."

"Well, look who finally came up for air."

_Yeah, no thanks to you, you sorry son of a bitch._

"What are you doing here, Claire? You're not part of this family."

 _That's just fine by me,_ she thought scathingly. _I have my own._ "You're right, I'm not," she replied. "But let me ask you something, does your _family_ know what you're planning to do here tonight?"

Samuel gave her a condescending smirk. "Why don't _you_ tell them?" He asked.

"He's gonna kill _all_ of those people out there," Claire exclaimed. " _That's_ how he's gonna introduce you to the world."

Surprised murmurs spread through the group, and the blonde knew that this must have been what Samuel was expecting—disbelief, and for more doubt to be thrown on her.

"Why would he do that, Claire?" The man Claire remembered to be named Ian spoke up. "He's given us _all_ new life. If he hadn't found me, I'd still be living out in that park. _Homeless."_

Claire scowled as mumbles of agreement circled around her.

"They know the _truth_ , Claire," Samuel said with a wide smirk. "Tonight is _our_ night."

Green eyes scanned the convinced faces of those surrounding her until they fell on one familiar figure—the little girl that had once thrown her arms around Claire in a hug, though she had barely known her.

 _Why not?_ Claire thought suddenly. _Everyone will know about him eventually._

"If you think I'm here to ruin what you've found here, you're wrong," she said, voice raising. "The openness, the acceptance. I know what it's like to keep secrets. My entire life is one big _lie_ , just so I can keep my family safe from the people who wouldn't understand." Her eyes met those of a few others, others that had been friendly to her when she lived here. "Because if people knew the truth, they _wouldn't._ They don't know what it's like to live a lie, right?"

A few nods went around, and that encouraged her. She had to connect with them, and she knew just how to do it.

"Well, I do." Claire swallowed. "Many of you don't know me very well, but you know that I'm just a freshman in college. I'm just a kid. But what almost _no one_ knows... is that I'm actually a mother."

Confused whispers.

"Just a few months ago, I was like you. I had no home. I had no safe place to turn. I was alone, because the father of my child was gone, leaving me with a baby that no one could know about. I had to give up everything for him, and I was _glad_ to do it, because I loved him. I still love him."

Understanding nods.

"But, I had to lie to my entire family. And, when fall came, I had to give my baby to someone else so I could go to college, just to keep our secret, just to keep him safe."

Pity. Sympathy. All things she hated, but now, they were like lifelines.

She was winning them over.

"And then Samuel found me, he told me about this place. And, for a few days, I lived here with all of you, getting to know you. When I looked at this place, I saw a home for my son. I saw a _future_ for him, a future that was so full of promise and _love_. That's all I ever wanted for him."

They were listening.

"So, if you think I want to ruin this, you're wrong. The thing is, _I_ want everything that you all have here. I want it all for myself, too. But I will not willingly put my child in danger, and that is what Samuel plans to do here, tonight. He plans to put _every single one of your lives_ in jeopardy. And I am here to save you from that."

"You think you're here to save them, Claire, but they don't _need_ saving!" Samuel cut in. "They _know_ what I've done for them."

"Do they _know_ that you gain your strength from them?" Claire asked softly, turning to address the family. "You are the _source_ of his power! Without you, he is _nothing!_ That's why Joseph was keeping the family _small_ for all those years, because he knew. He _knew_ how powerful Samuel could be! That he would lose control, _just_ like he did when he buried that town!" She stood straight, staring into the alarmed faces of the family, of the husbands, the wives, the mothers and fathers and children. "But you all walk away _now_ , and he will be _weak._ He will be _ordinary_. He will be _nothing!"_

"I think we've all heard enough, am I right?"

Confused exclamations, unsure of who to trust, Claire pressed on.

"He's _using_ you, and that's what Joseph was trying to keep from happening." She turned to Samuel, her lip curled with disgust. "But why don't you tell them what you did to stop him?"

"That's _enough!_ " Samuel snapped.

"He killed him. He killed his own _brother!_ "

Samuel grabbed Claire by the arm and hauled her bodily from the crate she was standing on. Startled gasps filled the air, and Claire knew that she had won. Samuel's reaction had given him away, now.

He had dug himself a hole that he wouldn't be able to fill.

 

* * *

 

Peter stood frozen among the crowd, his chest heaving, eyes wide and unseeing and blank.

"The dream," he whispered.

"What?" Sylar asked, confused and concerned.

"All these people were all here, like lambs to the slaughter."

"It's not gonna happen, Peter," the elder assured him, hovering at his side, not sure of what to do. "Go find Samuel. I'll save Emma."

But Peter wasn't moving.

"Peter."

Finally, the shorter man snapped out of it, his eyes meeting those of his best friend.

"Your dream said _I_ save her," Sylar said quietly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. " _Trust me."_

He nodded once, sharply, and Sylar turned, slipping through the densely packed mass of bodies. He followed his ears toward the source of the speakers, knowing that wherever they were, Emma was sure to be, too.

He finally came to a halt outside of a large tent, where the sound was reinforced by a soft undertone, almost an echo-

He knew he was in the right place.

Sylar slipped into the tent, approaching slowly as his eyes fell on a blonde woman. Her fingers were covered in red, sticky droplets of blood sliding down the strings of a beautiful cello, the wood shining even under the dim light.

However, something was strange—her movements didn't hold the practiced grace of a performer, but rather a start-stop sort of jerkiness that was familiar but strange. Sylar couldn't place it, but reminded himself that there would be plenty of time to figure it out _after_ he'd saved the woman.

"Don't worry," he said quietly. "I've come to save you."

Her eyes were grateful, but her movements never stopped, even as Sylar reached out to take the cello from her bloodied fingers.

And stopped.

Sylar looked don as his arm snapped back away from the instrument, Emma wincing in pain as her fingers were made to play. A man chuckled as he rounded from behind the curtain, snapping Sylar's other arm into place above him like some sort of horrific... puppet.

And then he remembered; Eric Doyle. This was the man that Claire had saved before that night on the beach. This was the man that Sylar _himself_ had turned over to the government. The man that Sylar had thrown into Samuel's table. And now it all snapped into place.

He was _forcing_ Emma to play, possibly for _hours_ on end, if the damage to her hand was any indication.

"What brings you to The Big Apple?" Doyle asked with a smug smirk.

"Doyle," he said in acknowledgement, attempting to come up with some semblance of a plan.

"Didn't expect to see you back here, of all places. Especially not so soon." The man bared his teeth in a toothy grin. "Did you make that visit to Barbie? She's a pretty one, isn't she? And tough, too. Did I ever tell you about the time I made her mother shoot her? God, that was fun."

Sylar's eyes darkened with rage. The thought that he would _dare_ to do that to _his_ Claire—

_Calm down._

He steeled himself with a few deep breaths before starting, "Doyle, I don't want to hurt you. Just let her go, please."

"Since when do _you_ ask politely?" He sneered, sounding all too much like Matt Parkman.

Anger flared back to life, and with it, a shred of temptation to lay this man out and cut open his head, just for the fun of it.

_No!_

"A lot of people are gonna die if we don't stop this," Sylar tried to reason.

"Are you a shape-shifter?" Doyle gave him a patronizing look. "Is that Dudley Do-Right in there?"

_Gonna kill him, gonna tear his limbs from his body, gonna make him **scream** -_

"You can't hold us here forever," he whispered.

"I don't plan on it." The man took a few steps down from the raised stage. " _Just_ long enough for Samuel to finish the show. Isn't that right, Em?"

He was silent for a moment before a huge, terrible grin broke out across his face. "Oh. I don't think she _heard_ me."

_**I will flay him alive, I will teach him what it is to disrespect a man like me—** _

A flash of light erupted and Doyle was flung backward. With an incredulous glance at the woman, Sylar realized that the power had come from _her_. The surprise of it snapped him out of his rage.

 _What an amazing woman,_ he realized, eyes wide. _Peter did well for himself._

"Are you okay?" he asked, eyes scanning over her quickly, looking for any other injury. Emma nodded in silent response, and that was all the permission Sylar needed to reach out, telekinetically flipping Doyle onto his back and slowly crushing his windpipe.

"Sylar—please! Listen to me!" The man begged.

 _You are a pathetic coward,_ the older man thought. _You deserve to die for what you've done._

"Please. Samuel made me do it!"

"Really?" He growled, stalking closer toward the man. "Because I thought _you_ were the puppet master." _You are nothing but the dirt under my shoes. Not even worthy of being called a man. I should tear your head from your shoulders._

"Come on," the man said. "What do you care about this girl, anyway?"

"I am here to _save_ her," Sylar said. _But not until you are dying a slow, painful death—_

"That's not you! You're like me!"

_Should kill you, want to kill you, **going** to kill you—_

_**Sylar.** _

That lingering urge, that echoing promise, faded under the quiet reminder in the back of his mind. _He was not alone. He didn't have to be anymore._

"No," he replied with firm, quiet conviction, and a measure of pride. "I'm a _hero._ "

With a flick of his hand, the man was unconscious, and Sylar was turning back to the woman who stood uncertainly on the stage. She cradled her injured hand close to her body, allowing Sylar to take the cello and bow from her uninjured hand, setting them aside.

"Who are you?" Her voice was tinted by a telltale sign of her condition, but Sylar barely noticed. All that he knew, as his body thrummed with the pride at having _saved_ someone instead of _killing_ someone, was that she was _fine._

"I'm Peter's friend," he answered, offering his arm for her to brace herself on as she shakily climbed down from the stage. "...Gabriel."

"Emma," she replied quietly. "How did you find me?"

"Peter dreamed about it. He would have come, but the dream said that _I_ had to, instead."

"Where is he?"

Sylar glanced back to the entrance of the tent as a fierce rumbling took hold of the ground. "Probably taking care of _that,_ " he answered as he turned back to face her. "Emma, you need to get out of here. Get as far away as you can, outside of the Carnival. Do you understand?"

She nodded, wide-eyed, as Sylar dragged Doyle telekinetically toward a set of posts.

"What about you?"

Surprised, he turned—she was _concerned_ for him. For his well being.

A tiny smile twisted his mouth, and he lightly kicked Doyle's side—much lighter than he deserved, anyway. "I'll take care of this. Just go; I'll be fine."

She nodded again, and in moments she was gone, hopefully heading to safety. He would have gone with her, but he had a responsibility here.

 _No one_ messed with _his_ girl _or_ Peter's and got away with it.

Sylar— _Gabriel—_ set to work.

 

* * *

 

"You think they're going to believe _you_ over _me?_ " Samuel growled. "They'd be _lost_ without me!" He turned, attempting to stare down the terrified members of his little _family_. "There's not _one_ person here who thinks I'm capable of murdering my own brother."

"There's _one,_ actually."

Claire turned in surprise to see a lean, wild-eyed man. She had never seen him before, but is the gasps were anything to go by, then he must have been a well-respected member of the family.

"Make that _two_."

_Dad._

"Lydia told me everything," the first man started in a quiet British accent.

"Well, she's not here to confirm that now, is she?" Samuel set his sights on Bennet. "Because _he_ killed her!"

"That's a lie." His voice was strong and calm, his face a familiar expression of carefully-constructed coldness. It was his _Company Man_ face, as Claire knew it. The face of a practiced assassin. The face of a man with a plan. "Isn't it?"

Another man stepped out from behind Bennet, one that, shockingly, Claire recognized. It was Eli, Samuel's right-hand man. The very one who had shoved her into all sorts of trailers and stalked her around the Carnival in a way that would have put Sylar to shame.

"Tell the _truth_ , Samuel," the man said, face grim.

That certainty in Samuel's eyes was starting to fade. Now, the man simply looked panicked. And panic in a man like this was _dangerous._

"You had _me_ kill Lydia."

The old carnie was speechless under the accusing glares of his followers. Then, finally, he gasped, "I did no such thing!"

"You blamed it on me to justify what you're going to do here tonight," Noah Bennet cut in with a heavy frown.

"What—you're gonna _believe_ him, after all I've done for you?"

"I know I can't stay in this family after killing one of our own," Eli said quietly. "But he has to be _stopped."_

"It's up to all of you," the man with the horn-rimmed glasses insisted. "Claire's right. You walk away and he's powerless."

Nervous nods of quiet acceptance.

It was done.

"It's over, Samuel," Bennet finished.

"Come on," Claire nudged quietly. "Let's get out of here."

She was their leader as they followed her from the tent, ignoring all of Samuel's desperate last tries to call them back. She was the winner. She was strong.

She was a mother, leading her family from danger.

"Run as fast as you can!" Samuel roared from behind them. " _You'll never get far enough!"_

It was that last-ditch scream that forced Claire into a dead run.

"This way!" she called loudly over her shoulder. "Everybody, come on. Don't fall behind. Keep up with me!"

"Claire!" Bennet called as he worked his way up to the front. "I called Hiro, he should be here any moment. Get to the exit, I'll lead them all from behind!"

Claire nodded in understanding, her father echoing the gesture.

"Come on, guys! Follow me!"

The group weaved through the trailers, even as the shaking of the ground caused them to stumble and the screaming started. That only forced Claire to go faster, and the family worked together to keep up with her, refusing to leave any behind. If the situation wasn't so pressed for time, she would have been proud.

"We're too close to him!" Her father exclaimed.

"Go!" Claire screamed. "We need to get as far away as possible!"

Things were falling, crashing to the ground all around them, and Claire knew that they were running out of time. They made their way toward the rear exit when she finally saw Hiro and Ando rushing toward them.

"Hiro!" Claire exclaimed in relief. "You need to teleport everyone out of here!"

The man's baby-face twisted with surprise. "Ah— _all_ of you?"

"We need to _try_ ," she said quietly. " _Everyone._ "

The man's bespectacled eyes took in the crowd. "There are so many—" he said in his thick accent before his mouth twisted with something akin to resolve. "They all have to be touching."

"You heard him!" Bennet ordered. "Everybody, join hands!"

The Japanese man shouted at his friend in his native language as Claire checked over to make sure everybody was somehow connected to the rest of the group. By the time Hiro turned back to them, Bennet had pulled away.

"I'll stay," he murmured to Claire. "Take care of Samuel." Then he placed Claire's hand into Hiro's with a firm, encouraging nod.

Hiro and Ando shared a firm nod before he looked back to the group. "One, two, _three!_ "

Red lightning surged around them, and with a flash, they were gone.

They reappeared in a clearing on the other side of the park. Claire could still hear the clamoring of the Carnival-goers, so it had to mean that they weren't _too_ far. Hopefully it would be far enough.

"Is everyone okay?" She asked, releasing Hiro's hand and walking around the group. "Everyone here?" A murmur of assent went through the group, and Claire let out a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, good."

Turning to Hiro with a huge smile, she threw her arms around him. "Oh, Hiro, _thank you!_ You saved us."

The man smiled, stubby arms surrounding her and patting her back lightly. "Cheerleader, a hero's work is never done." His smile only grew as he pull away. "And tonight, you have become a hero, too! _You_ were the one to lead them, not me."

"He's right, Claire."

The girl spun, facing the British man from before. He held out his hand for her to shake with a tiny smile. "My name is Edgar. I'm sorry we haven't met before this. Samuel cast me out. I was... I was Lydia's friend."

Claire nodded in understanding. "I'm so sorry..." her face fell. "I tried to save her, but—"

"You did all you could," he said with a nod. "If we can keep under the radar until we return home, we'll have a burial for her in a few days."

"Burial," Claire mused solemnly, watching as the members of the family spread out to comfort each other, sharing in their grief of being betrayed and the horror at what had almost occurred. They really _were_ a family—one she was proud to know.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. "Wait—so you haven't buried her yet? You still have her body?"

Edgar gave a short, confused nod.

Claire's face lit up. "Edgar, I'm a healer. My blood has healing properties; I mean, it might not work," she added as a second thought. "Since I've never really seen it in action. And I don't know if it works after someone is dead. But maybe I could _heal_ her!"

A look came over the man, tentative, like he was scared to even consider what Claire was saying. "Why didn't you try it before?"

She frowned. "Samuel had me thrown in his trailer. And he was the one to kill her—he wasn't about to let me help."

"Maybe," Edgar said quietly. "If we can get back in, there should be a syringe in the medicine kit. But we'll have to be careful. And who will stay with the family?"

"I can."

The two turned to face Ian, whose expression was hopeful.

"And I, Cheerleader."

"Really?" Claire asked, looking between Ian and Hiro.

Ian nodded. "Things here will be quiet. People need to share the night if they're going to heal. I can keep watch over them for long enough for you to try."

"We will keep them safe."

The blonde nodded hesitantly. "I need to talk to my dad, anyway. We have to transport you all back to your home, but I don't know what to do about the Carnival—"

"Samuel was never the one who _moved_ the Carnival," Edgar cut in, despite Claire's look of surprise. "The Carnival moved on its own, somehow. It always knew where we had to go next. It was special before it was _special_. Understand?"

She nodded. "Well, we still have to wait until—"

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Claire extracted it with a frown, opening the text from her father.

_It's done. Keep them away, just for safety. Media is everywhere. If you can get out, meet at the back entrance._

Claire showed the text to Edgar, who smirked. "Well, then, that's helpful." Turning to pat Ian on the shoulder and murmur some instructions, Claire let her eyes trail to the line of buildings that rose above the trees.

Somewhere in there, her son was waiting for her.

"You ready?" The British man startled her out of her own reverie.

"Yeah," Claire said with a nod. "Let's go."

 

* * *

 

They snuck in through the back where Bennet waited, arms crossed over his chest. "Edgar?" He asked in surprise when he saw the other man. "I thought you would stay with the family."

"We have something we have to try," Claire explained quietly, looking to the shorter man. "Do you know where they put her body?"

He nodded, gesturing for Claire to follow.

"Body?" Bennet asked, eyes wide. "Claire—"

"Dad, they need a leader," she said softly. "Just—just come on."

They followed in a line to an unfamiliar trailer, one that Claire had seen but had never seen used. "Whose is this?"

"Mine," Edgar answered, pulling open the screen door and pushing through to the inside.

"Unlocked?" Noah asked in surprise.

The younger man shot him a scathing glance. "We have no secrets here."

Claire blinked—apparently the men had a history. She shrugged it off, though, once she saw the small couch, a sheet laid over it. She carefully pulled back the cloth, frowning heavily when she saw the death-whitened face of her friend.

"Lydia?" Bennet asked, then understanding washed over him. "You're going to revive her."

"Every child needs a mother," Claire replied by way of answer, accepting the syringe that Edgar handed her, the aluminum kit laid out on the floor.

She didn't bother to sterilize her arm, just placed the syringe in her mouth as she pulled up her sleeve, tapping her inner elbow and inserting the needle into a vein. Edgar watched the process with interest as the blood flowed into the drug chamber, deep red and precious.

When the needle was extracted, a single drop of blood welled up. Claire wiped it away with her thumb, exposing the unmarked skin underneath.

Claire sighed, moving up onto her knees and running her fingers carefully over Lydia's cold, still pulse point.

"What are you doing?" Edgar asked.

"The closer to the heart, the faster it should work," Claire answered. "Hypothetically." Then, pushing the syringe into the woman's skin, she depressed the syringe and removed it.

For a long time, nothing happened. She could see Edgar's shoulders dropping from the corner of her eye, disappointment clear in the set of his body.

And suddenly, a small, red-coated cylinder pushed itself from Lydia's chest, the hole closing behind it.

Claire let out a heavy breath just as Lydia gasped one in, her skin flooding with color and eyes snapping open, body jolting as it restarted all at once. The woman sat up, chest heaving, startled as the bullet fell into her lap.

She was alive.

"Bloody amazing," Edgar breathed reverently. "A miracle."

Bennet's eyes were drawn to his daughter, whose face split with a smile.

"Lydia?" Claire said carefully.

The woman turned brown eyes to her friend, confused and disoriented. "Claire? What happened? Did I—?"

"You're alright," Claire whispered, leaning up to wrap her arms around the other woman with a waterlogged laugh. "You're okay. Everything's going to be fine."

"Samuel?" Lydia asked, her arms encircling the girl, who was suddenly also embraced by Edgar.

"He's gone," Bennet said, his chest swelling with the emotions only his strong, beautiful daughter could bring out in him.

"It's over."

 

 

 


	16. Lying By Association

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x19 "Brave New World"

Gabriel stepped back to admire his work.

Admittedly not quite as entertaining as the hunt once had been, this was a close second. Plus, there was significantly less mess for him to bother with, and it was strangely satisfying to know that Doyle would be feeling this when he fully returned to consciousness.

"Sylar?"

He looked up, not entirely surprised to see that Peter had found him or to see the worried expression his best friend held.

"Sylar?" Emma repeated from beside Peter, frowning. "He said his name was Gabriel."

Peter's mouth dropped open slightly. "Really?"

Gabriel shrugged a little, a faint smile tilting his lips.

"Well..." the younger man seemed to struggle with his words for a moment before he came to a solid conclusion. "Okay. _Gabriel._ "

The older man bent down, picking up the disconnected ends of two chords. "You look worried."

"Should I be?"

Gabriel shook his head once, snapping the cords together. The lights he had used to hold Doyle to the post lit up, jolting the overweight puppet master with their electricity. He nearly grinned at seeing the man strung up.

"What do you think?" He asked, turning to Peter with a darkly amused look in his eyes.

The younger looked like he was fighting the urge to laugh as he tilted his head slightly in consideration, taking in the sight.

"I _like_ it," Gabriel added.

Peter stared at him for a long moment before he snorted, dissolving into quiet laughter. " _Jesus_ ," he said quietly, grinning. "You're _crazy._ It's great. I love it."

Gabriel chuckled quietly to himself. "I figure we can leave him. But I should probably go before someone catches up with _me._ "

"We have time," the younger insisted, motioning for him to follow as he and Emma left the tent. "We should stick around for at _least_ a minute or two. See if they need us."

But there was something Peter wasn't telling him, and he knew it. Gabriel, however, didn't press the matter—he was still in too much of a good mood to pick fights.

As they headed toward the entrance of the Carnival, flashing lights distracted the men, signaling the arrival of an ambulance. It wasn't surprising that people had been hurt after what had happened there that night.

Peter eyed it before he shot his friend a glance, who nodded in return.

"Emma, you need to get your fingers checked out," Peter said, making sure the woman was paying attention. "I'll go with you. Sy—" Peter cut himself off. " _Gabriel_. I'll be right back."

The older man nodded slightly, not at all put off by Peter's slip. The adjustment would take time, and he knew it—after so many years (he didn't even want to think of how many years it had or hadn't been) of being called _Sylar_ , it wouldn't be easy to change. That Peter was even agreeing to _try_ to change was a major accomplishment.

His eyes followed the couple as the other man ushered Emma toward the medical personnel. He smiled, just a little; Peter deserved the happiness he was sure to find with the woman. She was an attractive and powerful individual, as well as compassionate and intelligent—Peter's perfect match, if he had the dedication to follow through. Which, if his actions were any indication, he would.

He was happy for them.

Gabriel let out a heavy sigh as he moved toward one of the games, hopping up to sit on the abandoned wooden frame as he watched the various people mill about. A convoy of black vehicles were pulling out of the Carnival's dirt paths, heading toward the city—probably shipping Samuel and Doyle and the other assorted shady characters that were in on Samuel's plan. For a moment, he wondered if he should have been among them. But, after a second, he shook his head- he had _paid_ for his sins already. And what he hadn't, he was going to fix.

Gabriel was not Sylar anymore.

His eyes moved to a cluster of news vans, their various reporters swarming around some poor, unsuspecting victim. He chuckled at the thought. What would they say, he wondered? Would they say that it was all an act? Would they pass off the sparking as an energy surge? How long could they _lie_ and expect to get away with it?

Something was going to have to give, one of these days, and Gabriel knew it. Someday, someone would snap in a way that was unavoidable, in a way that couldn't be covered up by a mind erasing or ten. He knew that he would live to see it, but in a strange way, he hoped that he would _see_ it.

He would have to thank whoever it was.

And, really, he should have known.

 

* * *

 

"Is everyone safe?" Bennet asked as he and Claire slipped toward the front of the Carnival. Lydia and Edgar had headed back toward the family after a long few minutes of tears and laughter. Claire could only hope that things would turn out alright with them.

"Yeah, Hiro's taking care of them," Claire answered, a smile still pulling at her lips. "They'll be fine."

Her eyes met those of a familiar man as he was put into a black SUV, the windows tinted so she couldn't see through when he was closed in.

"Who's taking Samuel? Is it a new Company?"

"Old one," the man answered. "Lauren called in some favors."

Claire shot her father a frown and an incredulous tone as her eyes were drawn toward the disheveled blonde woman. "What's she _telling_ them?" Her face was stern as she spoke to a crowd of reporters—very no-nonsense, very official. Very Primatech.

"There was a gas main rupture," her father replied.

"Of _course_ there was."

"And all of the other stuff, the flying, the rumbling," he continued, a pleased expression taking over as he looked at his daughter. "All just special effects put on by a _very_ gifted showman."

Claire's face fell, despite her father's obvious satisfaction at the situation. Would it always be lies? Would there always be stupid, simple explanations that people would buy because they had no better guesses?

It wasn't fair. As someone with gifts, she _knew_ what a burden it was to hide them. Her father, Lauren, they had _no idea_.

"You still can't see it," she asked. "Can you?"

"See what?" Bennet frowned.

"The _future_ ," Claire continued quietly. "One where we all get to live out in the open?"

The man sighed, putting his hand on her arm as he murmured, "Claire, you _know_ how I feel about this."

 _But you don't know how **I** feel,_ the girl thought. _You don't know what it's like. You have nothing to hide, but I do. It's not fair that you're asking me to hide who I am when you don't do the same, yourself._

"How long can we keep this under wraps?" Claire snapped, refusing to move as her father passed her and turned, surprised.

Her volume was enough to draw the attention of the reporters, who suddenly swarmed around Claire and her father, throwing question after question at them, shoving cameras and microphones in their faces.

"Excuse me?" one asked, a slender woman in a green sweater and long jacket. "You were witnesses! What happened?"

Bennet took one look at the group and put on his big-boy Primatech pants. "I have no comment."

"Can you tell us what you saw here tonight?"

The man was stunned, turning to his daughter as if he'd forgotten she was with him. His stomach plummeted—Claire wouldn't say anything, would she? No, of course not. She was his daughter. She _listened_ to him.

"Come on, you must have seen _something_."

Claire took a deep breath, shooting her father a glare. "What he said."

The man smiled, passing behind his daughter, his hand on her arm as he attempted to lead her away and once again found her frozen. A thought passed through his mind, and despite his inner protests, he realized, _this is it._

Claire, however, was frozen, remembering as words echoed through her head.

 _Claire, one day you will be given an opportunity to make or break this world,_ Angela's words repeated from their conversation nearly a week ago. _Ultimately, the choice is up to you, at that point in time. But I will warn you, dear, that if **you** are not the one to reveal this secret, things will go much less smoothly. You can handle it, if you are strong enough. You can be the face of a new world, and you can outlast any tat would oppose you. So, Claire, are you going to do it? Will you show the world the truth, and direct it as you see fit? Or will you try to wait it out and watch from the sidelines as it explodes in the world's face?_

"Miss, _please_ , you have to have seen _something_."

"Are you sure, Miss? You look like you wanna say something."

Eyes of every color and shape implored her to speak, to tell what she knew. And she could _handle_ it, of that much, Claire was sure. But could _they?_

_The truth will out. These lies can't hold us back forever._

"Actually, I _do_ have something to say."

"Claire."

Her eyes were drawn to her father, who was looking at her in shock, his gaze _begging_ her not to do what she was about to. But she _was_ about to. Because she _had_ to.

"You're right," she said softly with a solemn nod. "People _don't_ change."

_And neither do I._

He stared at her, mouth open slightly, reeling. But he didn't try to stop her as Claire pulled away from him, standing directly in front of the reporters. "You want to know what _really_ happened here tonight?"

Eager nods and excited murmurs, and Claire was surprised that _these_ weren't really all that different from those of Samuel's family. People were people.

At heart, they were all just looking for the truth.

"Keep the cameras on me."

Se glanced back at her father before she took off at a run, her father's nearly-panicked call of _"Claire!"_ echoing behind her.

This was it.

It was time to show the world _exactly_ what she was made of.

And she was going to do it in the only way she knew how.

Her hands linked around metal supports, climbing to the top of the ferris wheel the same way she had once climbed a gravel tower in Odessa, Texas. It didn't matter that this was Central Park- if she closed her eyes, Claire could still feel the blistering heat of the sun on her face, her uniform still slightly damp with sweat from cheer practice and sticky with blood from earlier falls. She was sixteen and silly, sixteen and stupid, sixteen and terrified and elated with the discovery of a new trick, wishing it was like the past where she could tug on a shirt sleeve and go _Daddy, look what I can do!_

" _Claire!_ "

"Look what I can do," she whispered to herself as she scaled the metal contraption, blue paint chips flecking off against her hands. _Dad, look. Angela, are you watching? Peter, are you paying attention?_

_Sylar, do you see this?_

_Noah, look what Mommy can do._

And then she was standing at the top, looking down. It couldn't have been any higher than that gravel tower, she decided. And it wasn't any more scary _just_ because a few people were nearby. Hell, Zach had filmed her throwing herself from eighty feet in the air before. It was the same exact thing.

Except that it wasn't.

 

* * *

 

"What the hell does she think she's doing?" Peter exclaimed, his voice a deadened monotone.

Gabriel thought for a moment to ask what he was talking about, but then he followed the man's gaze.

A blonde girl stood on the maintenance platform of the ferris wheel, looking down at the cameras and reporters staring avidly from below.

She was standing so close to the edge that it was _obvious_ what she was planning next.

"She's going to change _everything_ ," the man beside him murmured in true shock-and-awe style, as if he couldn't decide yet if he was angry or going anxious. One of the above. Maybe both.

Gabriel smiled, his expression softening. _Of course, Claire. It **would** be you. It always has been._

"That's right," he whispered, his gaze going distant at the thought of the future, at the thought of her face on television and magazines, of her story, of _all_ of their stories, _everywhere._ He thought of her getting up and walking away, leaving behind a mess of questions as she tended to her life.

He thought of Claire building this new life, this new _world_ for their son, one where they could be safe and free and never limited to what simple humans considered to be _real._ She could be so much for to that.

She already was.

And he loved that about her.

"It's a brave new world."

 

* * *

 

She looked at her father and saw his disappointment, and reality sunk in.

This wasn't the past and she was no longer a child. Silly little homemade tapes that her brother stole and threatened to put on YouTube were nothing—not compared to these, which would be plastered on the evening news and the internet and most _definitely_ on YouTube.

There would be no standing outside of these reporters' vans, begging for the videos back. Once she did this, there was no turning back, and the thought of that alone was almost enough to make her turn around and climb right back down, doing what made her father happy the same way she had when she was Claire Butler, the _wannabe_ cheerleader.

But she was not Claire Butler.

She was Claire Bennet.

She was Sarah Gray.

And if she hadn't backed down this far, why stop now?

_I wonder where you are. I wonder if you would be proud of me, for what I'm about to do. Would you be? Would you be amazed that I was still fearless, or would you be angry for spilling our best-kept secrets?_

_What would you say, Sylar? Would you say that I'm doing this right?_

Well, Claire figured. If she wasn't doing it right, someone could always come back and shoot her.

And with that thought in mind, she let herself fall forward in a well-practiced fall, smiling as the reporters screamed below. It was an inevitable reaction. _They_ were still limited in ways she was not.

Her vision went black and she heard her bones crunch, but only for a split second. _Well, that wasn't quite as bad as I thought,_ she realized. _Barely any rocks. I don't even think my nose is broken. Not like Texas._

Claire got to her feet, her arm twisted and bent at an unnatural angle. Grimacing, she grabbed her dislocated arm and gave it a sharp pull, crunching the bone back into its proper position before she popped her shoulder back into place. She could feel the warmth of blood on her face, but even that was fading quickly.

She straightened herself and looked into the cameras, a practiced statement echoing from her lips the same way a completely different one had escaped her father's.

She was Claire Petrelli, Claire Bennet, Sarah Gray. She was three women in one, but she was all one heart, one spirit, one mind, and she would _lead_ the new world, if that was what it took to make things right. And she was fully prepared to do so.

"My name is Claire Bennet, and this is attempt number..." She laughed quietly, coming up blank as she searched for a number.

Was there even a _number_ anymore?

"I guess I've kind of lost count."

 

* * *

 

The press surged forward, cutting Claire off from his sight, and that was honestly the first time that Gabriel could say he got nervous.

"Gonna kill her," Peter was muttering, sounding much like his _own_ mantra earlier. "Gonna kill her, gonna tear her limbs off, don't care if they're gonna grow back... god, _how did she not get shot, already?_ "

"Wouldn't that kind of defeat the purpose?" Gabriel reminded him. "You know... healing."

"Oh..." the man sighed. "Right." And then resumed, "Should have torn her into pieces and hid them..."

" _Peter._ "

Gabriel didn't bother to look at him, and to Peter, that said it all. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the group of reporters that were steadily pushing closer together and getting louder.

The younger man let out a heavy sigh. "Oh, _fine._ "

"I saved _your_ woman. You owe me one," he reminded his friend.

"I know, I know."

He and Peter started over at the same pace, quick and steady, moving their way toward the mass of reporters that had backed the blonde up against the very ferris wheel she had launched herself from. Despite her proud stance, Gabriel could see just how much the night had already taken its toll on her.

He needed to get her out.

He grabbed Peter's wrist before they got too far forward, stopping the man before they got to a place they wouldn't be able to escape from.

"Hold back, Peter."

"What now? They're everywhere. She's gotten herself into a fine mess, now."

Gabriel frowned, considering, and a rough outline of a plan started in his head. "Peter, take Parkman's ability. You can handle the reporters while I get Claire away from them."

"Wait, what?"

"Are you a Petrelli or not?"

Peter shot him a scathing glare. "What do you expect me to say?"

"Tell them that we _will_ answer questions. Here, tomorrow—say, noon? It will be an official interview and we'll answer as best we can, and by then, there will be an official statement for them to hear."

"Well, don't _you_ sound all smart," Peter pouted. "Why don't _you_ just do it, then?"

"Peter, I'm a wanted criminal, both on _and_ off the grid. _You're_ Nathan Petrelli's little brother. And I..." His eyes locked on the girl that was being grilled by the paparazzi. "I need to talk to Claire."

A soft growl escaped Peter from beside him. "You owe me a _huge_ one. Going up against Doyle and Samuel is _nothing_ compared to this nightmare."

A smile pulled at his mouth. "You go in first. Distract them, and I'll get her out. When you escape, call Claire. I'll be with her."

Peter didn't grace him with a reply, instead, shoving himself bodily through the mass of reporters toward his niece. Inevitably, as Gabriel expected, someone noticed the young paramedic, and for a short moment, all eyes were diverted from a confused Claire.

He made his move.

Gabriel slid around the back edge of the group with all the swiftness and grace of a practiced tracker, falling into place behind Claire before she had even turned away from the reporter's sudden shift of attention. He didn't bother to wait as he braced one arm on her back, bending his knees and scooping her up in one fell swoop. Bennet was here, he was close, and while Bennet _was_ distracted, that wouldn't last long.

"Hey—what the—"

"Claire," he said quietly, reveling in the soft heat and pressure of her body again his, even as her sudden struggles came to an abrupt halt. "You have to stay quiet. I'm getting you out of here."

" _Sylar?_ What the—I thought you left! What are you doing here? You can't just—" Green eyes were wide and livid and confused and just so damn _surprised_ that, for a moment, he didn't notice that her fighting had renewed.

"It's a long story. Claire, you need to listen to me. Peter is going to handle the reporters—"

"Peter? _Goddamn it,_ what's happening? Is Peter _here_ with you? Does he _know_ you're trying to kidnap me?" Her hands were pushing against his chest as she attempted to wiggle out of his arms.

His mouth twisted in a frustrated growl. "Not _just_ trying."

He bent his knees and pushed off, rocketing into the air.

"Hey! _Hey!_ You asshole, my dad is still down there! I have to handle this! _Sylar—!"_

"Please don't call me that," Gabriel said quietly, his arms tightening around her, angling his body so they moved toward the inner city.

Claire's arms instinctively anchored around his neck, her head tucking against his shoulder to shield it from the cold winter wind. It _was_ December, after all.

Time had such a strange way of passing.

"And what do you expect me to call you?" Claire asked quietly, her voice a mocking sneer that automatically set him on edge.

"My _name_ would be nice," he snapped in return, skimming over the top of the cloud cover. "My _real_ name."

She let out a soft huff, her breath warm against his skin, and Gabriel could practically feel her frown.

Suddenly they were in a descent, landing on the rooftop of a familiar building that Gabriel hadn't been to, at least _real_ time, in years. But it felt like the right place to go.

He set the blonde on her feet before he grabbed Claire by the wrist, guiding the shaky-legged girl toward the maintenance hatch. Of course, he should have known that Claire wouldn't make it that easy.

"Let me go!" She threw all her weight against him, and while it stopped him from proceeding forward, he was both strong and stubborn enough to stay in place.

"I can't do that."

"What the hell is your _problem?_ " Claire exclaimed, leaning back so hard that Gabriel was sure she would fall flat on her ass if he shook her off. "You were the one who left the other day. If you wanted to kidnap me, couldn't you have just done it _then?_ You just took me from a crew of reporters! They're going to know I'm gone!"

"I already told you that Peter would handle it." He scowled at her. "Can't you ever—oh, I don't know—just _go_ along with what I'm trying to do, Claire? You always fight and end up making it worse. So, if you _want_ to get trampled by a group of reporters who care more about their paychecks than they do about you, then have at it. Maybe I should have just _left_ you there."

He let go of her wrist, and, as expected, the girl fell backwards into a surprised heap. With a frustrated growl, he turned away from her confused, vulnerable expression.

 _This wasn't how I thought it would go,_ he sighed internally. _Why does she always have to fight it?_

_She wouldn't fight it if she didn't care._

Gabriel's shoulders slumped in a heavy sigh. _I know._

_She doesn't understand. You have to explain it to her if you want her to cooperate. When you try to run her life_ _**for** _ _her, it rarely goes well._

He nodded once to himself, the truth of that statement calming him. It was true—if he wanted her to understand, he would have to tell her.

"Sylar?"

His fists clenched, but he turned back to Claire, who was in the process of gracefully getting to her feet. A long, silent breath escaped him, and he took a few steps toward her, brushing back a strand of her bangs that had fallen loose from her ponytail.

She didn't say a word, though her eyes widened slightly at the silent gesture of affection. Gabriel watched as the tension slowly seemed to drain from her, most of her anger and frustration and more volatile emotions going with it.

"I apologize for stealing you from them," Gabriel said quietly, his mouth twisting a bit with distaste. "But I have to talk to you, Claire."

"Well, _they_ needed to talk to me, too," the girl huffed.

He scoffed lightly at that. "And they'll have their chance. I'm not ignorant in the ways of the media, Claire. By scheduling a date and time, it gives _you_ the control, not them. In a situation like this, control is something you'll need."

The green-eyed girl frowned, but she gave a tiny nod of understanding. "Peter's arranging another meeting?"

"He is," Gabriel confirmed. "Tomorrow. It will give you a chance to think about what you need to say. Now, are you going to give me a chance to talk, or are you going to try to run away? Because I have solutions for both."

He quirked a small smile, which Claire grudgingly returned. "Fine, I'll listen. Is there anywhere..." She made a face. " _Warmer?_ "

He nodded, his grip on her wrist much more gentle now that she was cooperating. Gabriel led her to a maintenance hatch, where they climbed down a short, rusty ladder to the door-lined halls of an old building. Claire's eyes narrowed, then widened with surprised confusion as he pulled her along toward one door in particular.

"How did you know to bring me here?" She whispered.

"Call it _instinct_ ," Gabriel huffed, moving toward the door with a frown. "Now, how did Peter do this, again...?"

"Peter do—"

The door popped open.

"—what... _When the_ _ **hell**_ _did Peter break into my apartment?_ "

"Long story, I already told you that," the man replied, a cheshire grin taking over his features. "Just get inside, Claire."

The girl obeyed with a slightly bewildered look, shoving past him into her own apartment, achingly the same Gabriel had last seen it. The book was still on the coffee table, pages-down, an empty wine glass beside it.

"Rene must have been in here," Claire muttered to herself quietly, walking over to pick up her glass and swiping a finger over the surface of the table. " _Of course._ He'll leave the glass exactly where I left it, but there's not a speck of dust in sight. Typical," she sighed, pushing past Gabriel again to get to her sink and placing the glass inside.

"I swear to god, if you make a joke about my taste for Pinot, I _will_ hurt you. Now," she said with an itty-bitty smile and turned, taking a few long steps before she launched herself onto her couch, not telling him or gesturing for him to sit, but he did, all the same, in a comfortable leather armchair. "Start talking."

Gabriel swallowed. God, how did he even _start_ a conversation like this? How did he even _start_ to talk to her, when he just wanted to hold her so badly?

"Sylar—" the girl warned.

" _Gabriel_ ," he corrected quietly, his fists clenching on their place atop his knees. "And it's... _complicated._ I don't even know where to start."

"You can start with the name change," Claire replied, shifting so she was sitting cross-legged, facing him. "And why you're kidnapping me with the help of _Peter_ , of all people. You _hate_ Peter."

"I don't hate Peter," he scoffed. "And Peter is just as complicated as the rest of this. _Jesus_ ," he sighed, covering his face with his hands. "Claire, this isn't easy for me. Especially being _here,_ and—"

"Start from when you left," Claire said quietly. "Start from there, and don't leave anything out."

So he did.

 

* * *

 

She hadn't expected to see him.

She certainly hadn't expected to be _kidnapped_ by him, and then brought to her own _home_. How had he found it? How did _Peter_ know about it?

So many things weren't adding up.

She tried to handle it as calmly as possible, though, because it _was_ Sylar. Well, Gabriel- another thing that was unexplained.

"When I left..." He cleared his throat idly, his expression setting as he started to speak. "When I left you in Arlington, I was resolute on getting rid of my powers. So I went to Matt Parkman—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Claire exclaimed, her mouth popping open in surprise. "You _actually_ listened to that?"

"You'd be surprised at what I dealt with to fix myself, Claire," Gabriel replied, his expression darkening. "And if it wasn't for Peter, I have no doubt that you would have never seen me again. Now, can I continue?"

She closed her mouth, crossing her arms over her chest, dragging a knitted throw blanket down from its place on the back of her couch and draping it over herself. His eyes followed this movement, and he waited only a moment before he stood, moving toward her gas-powered fireplace, talking all the while.

"I went to Matt Parkman and asked him to take my powers away. When he found that he _couldn't_ ," He turned the dial on the mantle, the flames flickering to life before he returned to his seat. "He decided that he would do something more _permanent_ about Sylar." The man shifted uncomfortably. "So he locked me inside my worst nightmare."

 _What could his worst nightmare possibly be?_ Claire thought, eyes widening. _It had to have been horrible—_

"In it, I was completely alone. Everyone, every _thing_ was dead."

Her hands clenched so hand that they bled, not even realizing until the liquid left her hands slick and sticky. Worming her hands out of the blanket, she stared at them in surprise- she didn't expect her response to be so strong. Apparently, Gabriel didn't expect it to be so, either, if the widening of his eyes was any indication.

"Claire—"

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, struggling to stand and escape the confines of the cloth tangled around her legs. "I'm sorry. I don't know why—"

She tripped in her haste to get free, but Gabriel was too quick than to let her fall. With one hand on her waist and the other offering his arm for balance, Claire managed to step out of her harmless captivity.

"Thank you," she said quietly, confused. If it was any other time, she knew Syl— _Gabriel_ wouldn't have bothered. So, why now? Why was he suddenly taking note of her every move, responding so readily to what she needed?

 _He's different,_ her mind supplied. She used her wrist to push up the handle on the faucet, the lukewarm water washing away she evidence of her stress. _Something happened to him after he left. He's changed._

Gabriel leaned back against the cabinets, content to simply watch her move. It was equal parts unnerving and flattering, but Claire got the sense that he was holding back, somehow. He was waiting, adjusting to _her_ needs in a way that he never had before.

He _was_ different.

She turned off the faucet and shook the excess water from her hands, hardly even surprised anymore when he handed her the dishtowel that had been resting on the counter. Claire smiled faintly, silently nodding her thanks as she returned to the couch. However, when he moved toward the chair, she shook her head, taking in his look of confusion before she waved him over.

"Sit with me," she said quietly, adding, "Please."

His head tilted slightly to the side, uncertain.

"Come on," she encouraged, patting the seat beside her. "I can hardly hear you from over there, anyway."

Gabriel conceded with a tiny, uncertain smile that Claire was quick to return. He sank down, careful to maintain his distance from her, the girl noted.

_Why is he acting so scared, all of a sudden?_

"So," the blonde nudged, reaching down to pick up the blanket from its place on the floor, placing it over her lap as she leaned back against the arm of the couch. "You were talking about—about what Parkman did. You said that Peter helped you?"

The mention of Peter seemed to ground him, and he let out a heavy breath. "Yeah, he did. Well, at first I was alone. It lasted for... for a long time."

"How long?" Claire asked with a frown.

A bitter chuckle escaped the man's chest. "Three years, for me. But, when Peter showed up, he told me that it had been only three hours. I didn't believe him, and he didn't believe _me—_ at least, until he saw for himself."

Shock made her fists ball up again, but before her nails could break the skin, she found stronger, larger hands gently pulling her fingers flat. "Three _years?_ "

He nodded, his thumbs brushing over the backs of her knuckles in a slow, soothing motion. "Yes. And it _was_ a nightmare, Claire. To be alone—" he cut himself off, his eyes closing for a moment. "I thought about you, though. You and Noah."

He needed to say nothing more for the tension in Claire's chest to melt, and without another word, she twined their fingers together, ignoring his obvious hesitance to comply. "You did?"

Gabriel's eyes raised to hers in surprise, dark and intense and beautiful, and even though he had changed, she was pleased to find that his eyes _hadn't_. They still were clear windows into his thoughts, his feelings, his very soul.

"Of course," he said quietly, frowning as if he couldn't believe she thought differently. "Every day. And I..." His voice dropped into such a low murmur that she hardly heard what he said next. "I missed you."

_He **is** different._

"It changed you, didn't it?" Claire asked quietly. "That place."

A quiet laugh escaped him. "You can see it, too, huh?"

"Yeah." She squeezed his hands in his, warm and slightly rough but incredibly pleasant. "I see it. But I still want to know what happened, if you want to talk about it."

Gabriel snorted quietly, but a faint smile pulled at his face. "Are you really going to sit here and play therapist?"

"If I have to," the blonde replied with an echoing smile. "For as long as it takes."

"It really _is_ a long story," he warned her.

Claire stretched out her legs, her foot brushing idly back and forth against his calf.

"I've got time."

 

 


	17. The Heart Never Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-series.

They talked late into the night, the minutes and hours passing without notice to either of them.

Gabriel told her the stories of the nightmare, about how he and Peter slowly became friends and how they fought tooth and nail to return to the real world. He had even started into telling Claire that Peter _knew,_ when a glint of silver caught his eye and his gaze landed on a familiar picture on the mantle.

Gabriel stood to retrieve it, carrying the small frame back to the couch, where he held it carefully in his lap.

"My friend took that," Claire said quietly. "A week or two after Noah was born."

"I've seen it before," he replied quietly. "Parkman somehow replicated it—he replicated this whole place."

Claire stared at him. "Meaning what, exactly? That my apartment existed inside of—"

"The nightmare? Yes." He brushed his fingers over the glass reverently. "And it's a good thing it was. I don't know if I ever would have gotten out, if it hadn't been."

"Why's that?"

Gabriel grimaced, his eyes torn from the picture and to Claire's face. He frowned, his hands tightening on the picture frame when he replied, "Because this place holds a lot of memories for me, Claire. And I don't know if I ever could have moved past them if I hadn't been forced to see this place in a new light. That room..." he closed his eyes. "Noah's nursery... it used to be full of the horrors of a tortured, broken man. And now it's a sanctuary, full of new life and happiness."

The man sighed, reaching over to place the frame on the coffee table beside them. "The nightmare forced me to exorcise all of my inner demons. It wasn't a quick process, but it was violent. I'm not sure what's left of the man I was before all this started, Claire." _I'm nothing but the unwanted pieces left behind, and I'm not sure if even_ _ **I**_ _can put them together in a way that would work._

"That's the problem," the young woman replied quietly, frowning slightly at him from where her head rested against the arm of the couch, her body stretched out, legs crossed and feet tucked just to the side of his knee. Green eyes glinted with the glow of the flickering flames behind her, contained in the fireplace. The image those eyes enforced in his mind was one of a girl spooned against him, her head tilted back so she could look at him upside-down , the moonlight tinting golden curls silver, the bones of her face highlighted and feline.

"All I keep hearing you talk about is the past. Have you realized that?"

He frowned in response; what was she getting at? "I don't understand what you're saying."

Claire sighed, shifting to sit up straighter, her hand reaching out and resting on his knee. "You keep talking about the past. The nightmare. What you _did._ Who you _used_ to be." Her thumb absent-mindedly stroked back and forth across the denim of his jeans, still tinted faintly red from the brick dust all those hours ago. "Tracy had the same problem, you know. She finally fixed everything, but she went back to her old life and found that she didn't fit anymore. If you want to find a place you belong, Gabriel, you're going to have to build it yourself, from the ground up. But you have to start with tearing down the walls you've built around yourself."

"I think I've already torn down the biggest," he muttered, his eyes falling from her face to the slow, comforting path of her hand.

"That doesn't mean you've gotten them _all_ ," she replied softly. "But _Sylar_ was never convicted for his crimes. You have a chance to rebuild your life, now. And you can do that..." her face twisted slightly before a sense of calm smoothed it over. "Wherever you please. It doesn't have to be here, if you don't think that this is where you belong."

He went to reach for her hand, but hesitated. _What if she pulls away?_

But Claire wasn't having it, taking the hand that hovered just above hers and twining their fingers together. "Hey," she insisted quietly, ducking her head and trying to catch his gaze. "Look at me."

He did.

"Don't feel like you have to choose now. Nothing's set in stone."

"It's quite the contrary, Claire," Gabriel said after a long few seconds of silence. "I _want_ to stay. There's nothing that I can even think about wanting more."

The blonde bit the inside of her cheek, happiness swelling in her chest, but knowing that it wouldn't last. His eyes gave him away every time. "But?"

"But," he conceded. "You just threw yourself into a brand new life. You're going to be in the spotlight, like it or not, and when the camera lands on you, the last thing you're going to want is a person like me standing beside you."

"I think _I_ can decide what I want for myself." Claire frowned, turning his hand over in both of hers, her thumbs kneading at his palm.

He attempted to pull away, but the green-eyed girl held fast. "You destroyed the option of thinking freely when you launched yourself off a ferris wheel in front of a news crew. You can't just do what you want anymore, Claire. What you do now will be reflected on all of us—what you do, what you wear, who you associate with. _Everything_ is out of your hands."

"If I didn't let you intimidate me, a few simple-minded people holding video cameras certainly won't," the girl growled, glaring at him. "I did this _because_ I want to have choices, Gabriel. I want to live a life on the outside, where I won't have to worry about getting a paper cut on an envelope in the post office, where it won't _matter_ if I run into a fire to pull out some guy and come out of it without a scratch. And if I finally get that—the ability to be _myself_ outside of my own home—and there's no one willing to stand by me, then what was the point?"

She tugged _hard_ on his hand, pulling him close enough that he was face-to-face with the swell of emotions in her eyes. "Claire—"

"If you walk away from me now, without even _trying_ to stay, how does that make you any better than any of the people in your life that have abandoned you?" Those eyes glinted with a sheen of what might have been tears, but Gabriel couldn't be sure as the girl blinked them away. "If you back out on your promises, how are you even going to _start_ to fix things, huh? How will that make you a better father? That's not the kind of example I want set for our son, and I _know_ you can be more than that. Even when you were Sylar, you were capable of more."

" _More_ is all anyone's ever wanted from me," he snapped in return. "My mother, Angela, Bennet, _you_. What _more_ could I possibly give you? I'm trying to _spare_ you."

"No," Claire replied stubbornly. "You're not. You're trying to run away, and I won't take it. I don't _want_ you to be more, Gabriel. I just want you to _stop_ trying to be less."

He was angry, he was hurt, he wanted to kill her, he wanted to _kiss_ her so badly. Her words stung, but there were no lies hidden inside them. He couldn't let her do this. He wanted to let her do this. He wanted to be spared, he wanted to be hurt, but most of all, he just wanted to love her.

She seemed to notice, then, just how close together they were. The annoyance and frustration on her face melted away to a nervous sort of surprise. Her eyes flickered down to his lips and her mouth opened slightly and she was beautiful and not moving away but moving _closer_ and—

A loud beep startled them apart. They stared at each other, uncomprehending, until recognition passed over the blonde and she struggled to extract her phone from her pocket. She cursed; the screen was slightly cracked from her fall, but it was still lit enough to be read.

"Peter," she said quietly. "Why—?"

"I told him to call," he sighed irritably. "Do you mind if I—?"

Wordlessly, she handed it over, her eyes still wide from the surprise of it all, cheeks stained a light pink behind smudges of grime. "Speed dial three," she said after a short moment of hesitation. "I'm, uh, going to go get cleaned up, if you don't mind. Make yourself at home, and I'll be back soon, okay?"

Gabriel nodded, blinking as the young woman stood, retreating quickly toward where he knew her room to be, his eyes following her until she disappeared around the corner. He stood, also, pacing toward the window as his fingers moved across the damaged pieces of pink plastic and metal.

" _Hey, Claire?"_

"No, it's me," he replied. "And you have _the worst_ timing in the world."

" _Just doing my job. Gotta protect her modesty."_

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "I think it's a little too late for that, Peter. What's going on down there?"

" _Oh, you know. General panic, but I talked them down. She's set for noon tomorrow, but I won't doubt that something will leak out tonight before an official statement is received."_

"Doubtless," he agreed. "And Bennet?"

" _Talked to him. He was pretty pissed, but I didn't give him the specifics. I just told him that Claire was safe and that you were taking care of her."_

" _I_ was?" he asked in surprise. "Surely you're not that stupid—"

" _Relax. I told him that it was—oh, how did I put it— **a trusted friend.** He seemed to let it go after that, but I think he wants to see her. He'll probably be calling soon. We've only just gotten things settled here."_

"Hopefully not _too_ soon. She's busy cleaning up, and her phone's pretty close to dead. I'm surprised it survived at all."

" _Ouch,"_ Peter said. _"Poor phone. I swear, that has to be her sixth or seventh one in the past two years. She needs to stop launching herself from elevated inanimate objects."_

Gabriel snorted at that. "Idiot. Where are you now?"

" _Heading back to my apartment. Still pretty far away, though; Parkman's power is only good for so much."_

"At least it will keep you from getting mugged."

Peter chuckled across the line, but he abruptly sobered. _"Did you guys talk?"_

"A little."

" _And?"_

"She wants me to stay with her."

" _That's great!"_

"Not really," he sighed irritably. "She just made herself the center of attention. That means background searches, interviews, outings; she doesn't need me there with her. I'm still a criminal."

" _That can be taken care of."_

A rueful grim twisted his lips. "Careful, Peter. Your Italian is showing."

" _Shut up."_ But Gabriel knew he was smiling. _"Seriously, though. Ma's got a pretty good hold over the justice department."_

"I never thought I would hear _you_ , of all people, suggesting bribery."

" _Gotta start somewhere, right? Well, I mean, it's up to you. I just thought that you might want a good reason to **stay** with the people you fought so hard to be with."_

That stung, he had to admit. "Damn it, Peter—"

" _Don't snap at me because **you're** insecure. You aren't **that** guy anymore, Gabriel, and you need to realize that. Appreciate what you have. If you don't, someone else **will**."_

Every single time. Every time he started getting in on himself, along came the force of nature called _Peter Petrelli,_ kicking his ass with that thing called _real life._

If _he_ didn't take care of Claire, someone else _would._

But wasn't someone _already?_

"Too late for that," he replied. "Has been since before we were locked in."

" _Well, if she didn't tell me, it's not serious."_

"Peter—"

" _Will you stop whining, already? Look, Claire would say things like she wants you to stay unless she meant it. Stop wallowing, or I'm hanging up."_

"You're being a jerk."

" _You're being a bitch. Now, when are you heading over here? I mean, if you are at all."_

"What?" Gabriel frowned, leaning his forehead against the cool glass and closing his eyes.

" _What, **what?** It was a simple question. Are you coming over here or spending the night there?"_

His mouth opened slightly in surprise, unsure of how to respond. Luckily, Peter cut in for him. _"Don't tell me that you thought you were gonna get out of staying at my apartment? Sorry, man, that's not an option after the last two and a half years, real or not. So when are you—oh, whatever. You know how to open the door, I'm not gonna wait up for you."_

"You..."

" _Yes?"_

Gabriel shook his head, a small smile flitting across his face. "Thanks, Peter."

A dry chuckle. _"It's no problem. Just try not to wake me up, or I'm going to have to kick your ass."_

"Fine, fine. Just don't fall asleep in the doorway again, okay?"

" _Hey, that was **one** time! You—"_

"Is that Peter?"

Gabriel blinked, turning in place to see Claire, hair dripping onto her shoulders, damp body clad in loose sleep pants and a thin tank top. He swallowed at the sight of her, averting his eyes as he nodded.

"Can I talk to him really quick?"

"It's your phone," he replied quietly. "Peter, Claire wants to talk to you."

" _What? Oh, sure!"_

Gabriel handed the phone over, his hand jerking away when warm, damp hands brushed across his, Claire's fingers slightly wrinkled from the overexposure to water.

"Hey, Peter!" She smiled at Gabriel, even as she turned away, pacing her apartment as she chattered into her broken phone. The man watched the graceful sweep of her legs, the softness of her steps barely registering in his mind, even with his enhanced hearing.

_How could I have gone without this?_ He wondered, his negative emotions swept away in the quiet music of her laughter.

It didn't really matter in that moment that he was exhausted and that his clothes were caked with the dust from exploding bricks. When Claire paused in her pacing and her face lit up from something Peter said—and when that smile was suddenly directed at him—he felt his heart thump erratically, felt all his worries melt from his shoulders. He felt _new._

And he wanted so much to go to her then, to take the phone from her hand and seal their lips together, to relearn her every gasp and sigh and curve of her body. But now wasn't the time for that- not when things between them were still fragile, not when the rest of the world was ready to break apart from the revelation Claire had provided tonight. Not when he was still still a wild card to the rest of the world.

If Claire noticed the heaviness of his gaze, she didn't let on; instead, she paced her apartment with quick, light steps, body thrumming with energy that wouldn't allow her to stay still. He was content to watch her for now, but it was nearly time to go. Peter would be waiting for him, and they would have to be back here in the morning to get Claire ready for the nightmare that tomorrow was sure to be.

When Claire was done talking, he reached out his hand for the phone before she could hang up.

"Peter?"

" _Hey. So, should I leave the door open or what?"_

"That'll be fine. I have to head back soon, anyway."

" _So, an hour, or...?"_

"Less than half," he said with a frown. _If I stay any more than that, I won't leave._ "I just have to tie things up here."

" _Fine by me. Just spare me the details."_

Gabriel shook his head in fond exasperation. "You're incorrigible," he grumbled. "I'll see you soon."

" _Bye."_

The man sighed, pulling the phone from his ear and frowning at it, unsure of how to turn it off. Claire laughed lightly and took it from him, the call ending with a quiet series of beeps before she turned to place it on the coffee table. "You're leaving?"

The silent _again_ in her voice went without saying.

"I have to," he replied quietly. "I have things to talk over with Peter, and we all need to get our sleep. If you don't mind, we can come back over in the morning, hash out a plan of what to say."

The young woman's lips pursed, her arms crossing over her chest when she turned back to him. A frustrated breath left her, and she opened her mouth, cutting herself off before she could speak. She was struggling for words.

"Gabriel..."

He frowned. "What, Claire?"

Her nails visibly dug into her arms, and he took a step forward instinctively. The action startled her out of it, and her arms fell to her sides. "Um... There's really no good way to ask this—"

" _Claire,_ " Gabriel nudged quietly.

She sighed, fidgeting. "Well... I was just wondering..." the blonde trailed off into silence. "... _Peter._ "

He was silent for what seemed like forever, confused, until the combination of her faint blush and unhappy look made things snap into place. A sharp, loud bark of laughter escaped him, incredulous and slightly mortified. "Oh, god. _No._ No, Claire."

Her shoulders relaxed, but her cheeks flooded with blood, staining them a deep red. Her hands came up to cover her face. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That was terrible of me."

He was torn between the desire to laugh and to hide. "No—it's okay." He ran a hand back through his hair. "Peter has a girlfriend, and I—well—" Gabriel cut himself off, a thought striking him. "Does it _look_ like that?"

"It's Peter," Claire replied with a quiet, embarassed laugh. "I can never tell. I'm sorry. Just—" she snorted softly, taking a few steps forward.

And then her arms were around his neck, her head tucked under his chin, warm and soft and familiar and just so _Claire_. He froze, unsure of what to do, even when the woman sighed and made it apparent that she didn't plan on moving anytime soon.

"Sorry," she whispered again. "I'm stupid and tactless, sometimes."

"Uh," he muttered, the workings of his brain long silent. "It's fine."

A quiet hum was his only reply, thin, soft fingers playing with his hair. He fought the urge he felt to just _stay—_ easier said than done, of course, especially when it came to this girl, this woman who had stolen his heart a long time ago.

"Relax," she whispered finally. "I just... I missed you, all those months that you were gone. I thought that I would be alone forever, that I would never see you again, and now you're _here_ , and..." Claire sniffled, but he couldn't be sure if she was crying or not. The thought instinctively brought his arms around her, one settling at her waist, the other around her shoulders. His eyes fell closed and he just _felt_ , for once—a soft, warm body; damp hair against his skin.

She was _there._

"I'm terrified that if I let you leave right now, that this will all be a dream," Claire continued. "That I'll wake up back in Arlington with Gretchen, and I don't think I could survive that."

"Gretchen cares about you," he reasoned quietly. "And she's been there—"

"Gretchen doesn't care. She was _made_ to care," Claire whispered, and he stilled in surprise. "Another trick, right? But I'd be lying if I said that it was ever _really_ about her."

His arms tightened. "Claire—"

"Promise me that you'll try. If not now, then soon." She lifted her head enough for brown eyes to meet green. "I've missed you every day, Gabriel. And I didn't just miss you _as_ Gabriel, I missed you as _Sylar._ I'm here for you. _All_ of you. Even the pieces that you don't like." Something like resolve flashed in her eyes, but ultimately warmer and more welcoming. "I said that I loved you, damn it, and I meant it. I meant it _then_ , and I mean it _now_ , and—"

He kissed her, long and slow and drowning in everything about her.

_How could she possibly love me?_

But it didn't really matter, he figured.

Because even if she was wrong, he loved her enough for both of them.

 

* * *

 

Claire was helpless. It would almost be pathetic, if she wasn't enjoying it so much.

Standing in the middle of the room, kissing the man that had once been her worst nightmare, both of them changed people that somehow found their way back to each other—it sounded more like a movie than her life. It sure wasn't one of those cheesy-romantic things that other girls cooed over, but that was what made it so perfect.

Something about him always made her snap in the best and worst of ways. She certainly hadn't expected for those words to escape her, but that didn't make them any less true. Hate and love were both passionate emotions, and she had always known that there was a fine line between them. She had been hovering between the two for a long time, now, occasionally leaning one way or another as she struggled to maintain her equilibrium.

It looked like she had finally fallen.

_Please don't leave me ever again,_ Claire thought desperately, standing on her tip-toes to push closer to him. _Not like that. If I let you go, will you really come back in the morning? Am I terrible for being jealous of Peter, even if you say there's nothing there? Am I trying too hard to fix things? Should I just let them be, and let them fix themselves? God, I love you, can't lose you ever again—_

Gabriel pulled back, pressing a few soft kisses to the corner of her lips, eyes half-open and watching her with wary affection, as if he was afraid that she would come to her senses and run at any moment. _I'm not going anywhere,_ she wanted to whisper. _I'm here. I'm yours._

"I told you once," he said quietly. "That I wouldn't change for you."

Claire nodded, one hand moving to stroke his cheek, thumb brushing back and forth in a loving, soothing manner. "I know. I don't mind."

"I lied."

The green-eyed girl frowned, head tilting to the side. "What do you mean?"

He kissed her again, just once, nothing more than a gentle press of his mouth to hers. "I don't want to be a monster, Claire. I've just spent so many years _being_ one that I couldn't see myself as anything else. But, now..." He leaned his forehead down to hers. "Even having been through that absolute _hell,_ I can't blame Parkman for what he did. It's what he thought was right, both for himself and his family. He made the decision that would protect the ones he loved. I want to be able to say that I've been a good father to Noah, a good..." he grimaced slightly. "... _partner_ to you. At this point, though, I can't. But I'm trying to change that. For you."

A smile lit up Claire's face, the pure _joy_ making her heart skip a few beats. With a happy sigh, her eyes fell closed, and she embraced him for all she was worth. "You're already a million times more than I ever could have dreamed of." _I never thought it was possible to be this happy. How do you make me feel this much?_

Warm hands travelled across her back, and Claire let out a soft, contented hum. For a few long minutes, they simply stood there, oblivious to the rest of the world as it spun and crashed around them, starting new at their feet. There was hope. Things could change, and they could change for the better.

And they would.

This time, it was Claire who carefully pulled back. "You should go. Peter's probably waiting for you."

Gabriel frowned, eyes flickering to the door and back to her. "This is... I mean..." He pushed a strand of hair back from her face. "Are we okay?"

Simple, quiet happiness flooded her at that question. It was so _normal,_ and so beautiful in its average roots. It was a question a million other men asked a million other women after a hundred million other tough times.

But this was her _one_ man, she was _one_ woman, and though their tough times were far from over, they had survived thus far.

"We're okay," she affirmed, leaning up to kiss his cheek, laughing quietly when he sighed in relief, nuzzling her temple.

"Okay," Gabriel said softly. "Okay. Well..."

"Go," Claire encouraged. "You and Peter can come over in the morning—well, later today, actually. We'll figure things out, and then... we can start changing the world, I guess."

A quiet laugh resonated between them, and a strong hand petted through damp blonde curls, fingers carefully working out a small knot. Claire smiled, taking his hand in hers and tugging him toward the door, knowing that if she didn't kick him out now, he would never leave and she wouldn't try to make him.

She opened the door, and it finally seemed that he was about to leave when he turned, bracing his arm on the doorframe, and kissed her one last time.

Claire smiled, utterly unable to help herself when a few short words escaped her. "I love you."

When Gabriel smiled, his entire face lit up in such a way that Claire couldn't even remember who _Sylar_ was. He drew her in with his free hand, pressing his lips to her forehead, moving so minutely that Claire almost missed what he said next.

"I love you too, Claire."

She was dying, definitely. Because there was no way that anyone's heart could beat so fast and so hard as hers was right now, and there was no way that anyone could survive being so happy, ever.

Her cheeks flushed red, and, grinning like a fool, she gave him a gentle shove. "Leave, before you make me change my mind."

"Fine, fine," he muttered good-naturedly. "I'll see you soon."

"Bye," she whispered, watching as he turned to leave, disappearing around the corner toward the maintenance hatch. Only once he was gone did Claire close the door, locking it behind her and launching herself onto the couch with a happy shriek.

Things were falling apart, but she would be fine.

On the table beside her, Claire's phone rang. Reaching for it, her eyes scanned the broken screen, and a groan escaped her. She pressed the button to answer.

"Hi, Dad," she started nervously. "So... some night, huh?"

 

 

 


	18. Killer Liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-series.

" _You have a_ _ **lot**_ _of explaining to do, young lady,"_ Noah Bennet growled over the staticky cell phone line.

Claire knew that voice. It was the _you are in so much trouble_ voice. One that she _never_ liked to hear, no matter how old she got.

"Uh, Dad..." she started.

" _Start talking. **Now**."_

The words came out in a rush after that. "I'm sorry Daddy, I really wanted to listen, but I need to make a new world for me and Noah and the rest of the families out there with kids that won't have to hide like I did, then I was thinking about it and Angela told me she had a dream that I told everyone about us, so I did what she told me to and—"

" _Slow down, Claire-bear. You said that **Angela** told you to?"_

The girl swallowed, sinking further into the cushions of her couch, even though there was no one there to scold her personally. "Yes. I knew you would be mad, but I had to do it. It was either going to be me, or some person a few months or years down the road that freaked out and hurt a lot of people. Just... think of this as a preemptive strike, like bagging-and-tagging in reverse; telling the public before they get hurt, instead of nabbing the specials before they hurt the public. You know?"

A loud, irritated sigh sent a loud, fuzzy string of frequencies into Claire's ear. She held the phone away from her with a slight grimace. _"I'm not happy about this. There's still time to mind-wipe everyone—"_

"Dad, I'd be surprised if this wasn't on YouTube already," Claire replied. "It'll spread too fast to catch, especially after tomorrow. Peter told you about the interview, right?"

" _Yes, tomorrow at noon. I'd like to meet with you before that—you and me and Lauren can go over what you should say to keep this as calm as possible."_

Claire shifted in her seat, glancing at the door that her— _what could she even call him, anymore?—_ _partner_ had just left from. "Sure. Peter's coming over in the morning, and—" She cut herself off.

" _And?"_

She cursed silently. "And... what?"

" _Don't you 'what' me. There was definitely an 'and' at the end of that sentence. Who else is there? Is it the person Peter was talking about, the one who got you out of that media clusterfuck?_ "

Claire chewed on the side of her finger, eyes sliding closed, heart sinking. "You could say that."

" _By not telling me, you're making my blood pressure worse."_

"You're going to have a stroke anyway."

Bennet gave a frustrated noise from the other end. _"Claire—"_

Claire sighed heavily, leaning her head back against the arm of her couch with a resounding _thunk._ "It's Gabriel. He's coming over tomorrow, too."

Silence. And then—

" _Gabriel."_ Bennet's voice was flat. _"As in, Gabriel Gray, psychopath **Sylar** , Gabriel?"_

She bit her lip. "It's actually a lot more complicated than that—"

And, over the line, Claire heard her father mutter, _"Lauren, turn around. I have to shoot Peter between the eyes."_

"Dad, no!" Claire exclaimed. "No! We _talked_ about this! There's a lot more happening than you understand."

" _What I **understand,** Claire, is that Peter made friends with the guy who hunted you for years and trusted him with your safety—"_

"I _was_ safe," the girl protested, sitting up straight in her spot, fidgeting irritably. "You _know_ that I was. You're just mad that it wasn't you who was protecting me this time. But I needed this, Dad—Gabriel and I had a lot to talk about."

" _W **hy** do you insist on calling him **Gabriel**?"_ Noah's irritation was rising, but so was his daughter's- that was fine. She could fight with the best of them. _"His name is **Sylar** , as he's been so adamant demanding that we call him such."_

"He's different," the blonde replied. "Something... happened. You'll understand when you see him tomorrow—" she glanced at the clock blinking on the display of her stove. "—later, actually."

" _Oh, no,"_ Bennet exclaimed. _"You're my daughter and I love you, but the only way I am facing him is with a gun in my hand."_

"Then I guess I won't be telling you where I live, now, will I?"

Bennet went quiet, his only reply being a near-silent, _"That's not fair."_

"Oh, it's completely fair," the young woman snapped. "In case you had forgotten, we _talked_ about this. Gabriel is _my_ choice to make, not yours. This is my life, which means that these are _my_ choices, and I will make them, with or without you there. Now, you can either threaten my family and live a life without me, or you can do _exactly_ as I say, and I _might_ let you have a place in mine. Do you understand me?"

" _Claire—"_

"I _said_ ," Claire snapped. " _Do you understand me?_ "

An audible swallow, a long pause, and then... _"Yes."_

Claire scoffed, fist clenching around her phone, and she made a very deliberate effort not to crush it even more than it already was. "Good. By the way, my phone is almost dead. If you could get me another one, that would be great."

Bennet laughed, though the sound was made of pure frustration. _"Remind me not to get on your bad side."_

"If you don't watch yourself, you'll be there sooner than you think," Claire replied, getting to her feet, pacing her apartment as she flicked off the lights and headed toward her room. "Now, I'm exhausted. I'm sure you are, too. I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow; we all do. So, I'm going to sleep, and I'll talk to you in the morning. Okay?"

" _Fine,"_ the man sighed. _"I'll call you tomorrow. Love you, Claire-bear."_

"Love you, too," she mumbled. "Goodnight."

" _Night."_

Claire set her phone on the table beside her bed, going about her once-usual routine of pulling down her covers and rearranging pillows, turning off the lights before she kicked off her yoga pants and crawled into bed, clothed only in her loose sleep shirt and underwear. She let out a soft exhale, turning onto her side and closing her eyes.

A soft trill startled her eyes open, darkness illuminated by a tiny light. Claire reached blindly for her phone, squinting at the caller ID, but unable to read it due to the cracks. She hit the answer button and held the damaged plastic up to her ear. "Hello?"

" _Claire."_

The girl sat bolt upright. "Rene!"

" _Angela has told me everything,"_ the man started, his voice unusually troubled. _"You have returned to New York—or so I have seen."_

"So I have," she replied. "I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner."

" _It is understandable that you had not,"_ the Haitian man said. _"However, your actions are... concerning, Claire. What you have done will have consequences."_

"I know," the blonde sighed. "But I did it for Noah. He deserves a world where he can live freely, if an ability ever manifests in him."

" _That is precisely my point. You have done it for him, but by doing so, you put him in danger. If the public is to find out about him, they will use him against you. You are invulnerable. He is not."_ The man actually sounded _angry_ , something Claire was unfamiliar with. _"In this state, I cannot return him to you in good conscience. If you continue to be so careless, you will get him killed, as well as all of those around you."_

Claire tensed. "So, what? You're not going to let me see my son?"

A quiet sigh. _"I will permit you to see him, but at this point in your life, I believe you are unsuited to care for him, just as Nathan was unsuited to care for you. If you can prove that the world will accept you, and that you can handle the responsibilities of that acceptance, then I will gladly return him to where he belongs."_

"But—" Claire spluttered, but she knew that the man was right. She couldn't do everything at once. She would have to take care to prove herself to the world, and when the risk was low, then things would finally shift back toward normal. "Okay, I trust you. I'm not happy about it, and I want to see him as soon as possible, but I know that you're right."

" _When would be a suitable time for you to see him?"_

The girl fell back onto her bed, closing her eyes. "Peter and my father are coming over in the morning to discuss strategy. I have an interview at noon, but I'll be up early. I'd say that any time before eleven is fine."

" _That will do. Your father is aware?"_

"He is," she replied. "...and Gabriel is, as well."

A low hiss echoed like feedback on the line. _"Sylar? Claire, I do not think—"_

"Gabriel is Noah's father," Claire growled. "Without him, Noah wouldn't exist in the first place. He would never hurt our child, and he deserves to meet his son."

Though she knew Rene didn't agree, she also knew that he wouldn't dare to deny her that, either. _"If the boy is put in danger in any way, I will remove him from the situation."_

"I agree," she replied. "Now, though, I have to sleep. I'm exhausted and it'll be an early morning."

" _Goodnight, Claire."_

"See you tomorrow." Claire ended the call and replaced the phone on her bedside table, sliding down under her blankets with a quiet sigh.

There really weren't enough hours in the day.

 

* * *

 

Waking up was a slow fade, starting somewhere around seven and drifting through eight with the rise of the sun in her window. Claire drifted on and off, knowing that she should get up—but, then again, she had no idea when anyone was going to show up.

On second thought, that was a pretty good incentive.

She groaned, rolling off of her sinfully comfortable mattress, feet hitting the cold floor and sending a shiver up her spine. Claire yawned, stretching her arms above her head and hearing her shoulders pop. Working her way toward her dresser, she contemplated what she should wear- conservative or casual?

Shrugging, she pulled out a worn pair of jeans from her days in Texas and a snug turtleneck in a forest green. Victoria had complimented her on it, once, saying that the color brought our her eyes.

And _speaking_ of Victoria...

Claire changed her clothes, dropping her shirt in the hamper and picking up her sleep pants, making her way into the bathroom to brush her teeth. It was strange to be back in this apartment and think of herself as _Claire._ She'd always associated _1146 Trenton Place, Apt. 1B_ with _Sarah Gray_. Now, she was mixing her mediums, stirring her identities together until they melted into one person.

Was she Sarah, or was she Claire? Or was she something entirely new, altogether?

A sharp knock distracted her from her thoughts, and Claire was immediately grateful that she had gotten up when she did. Setting her toothbrush on the sink and shutting off the faucet, she cut through the living room to open the door.

"Peter!" Claire said with a smile toward her uncle and his friend as they entered, Claire closing the door behind them. "Gabriel! Hey."

Peter positively _beamed_ , all hole-ridden, baggy cargos and loose, long-sleeved shirts in true grunge style _,_ stepping forward to wrap his arms around her in a bear hug. "God, it seems like it's been so long since I've seen you. I'm still kinda pissed at you, but it's really good to see you, Claire."

"Good to see you, too," she replied.

Gabriel was considerably less sloppy in dark wash denim and a form-fitting black t-shirt, freshly washed peacoat layered overtop. He was smiling a little, hands in his pockets, head tilted to the side as he looked her over.

"Hi, there, stranger," Claire murmured with a smile, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning up on her tiptoes so she could kiss him. "How are you?"

"Better, now," Gabriel replied quietly with an exasperated smile, resting his forehead against hers. " _That_ one woke me up at some ungodly hour of the morning with his sleep talking and I couldn't fall back asleep."

"If I'm not awake, I can't be blamed for bugging you," Peter said with a roll of his eyes, struggling to pull off his too-big jacket and hanging it on the rack by the door. "Anyway... huh."

Gabriel frowned and Claire looked over her shoulder at Peter. "What?"

The brunette man considered the two of them carefully. "I guess I just couldn't see it until I actually _saw_ you two together." He grinned. "You're a cute couple. Don't break up."

"Thanks," Claire grumbled, rolling her eyes as she turned back to Gabriel, fingers idly attempting to free the buttons of his coat.

Gabriel laughed quietly, but whether it was at Peter's words or her actions, Claire wasn't sure. "Here, I got it," he said, removing it and putting it on the coat rack. "How long have you been up?"

"Less than fifteen minutes," Claire replied, moving to her fridge and narrowing her eyes as she peered inside. "There's barely anything to eat. I should have known." The girl shook her head, shifting her focus to the cabinets. "So, I have cereal... soup... oh, well, there's coffee, but I don't have milk..."

"Claire," Peter snickered, holding up a paper bag that she hadn't noticed previously. "Bagels. I got, like, ten, and I stole about a million of those individual cream cheese things." The brunette grinned, setting it on the counter before he grabbed one for himself. "And black coffee is better than no coffee. Where's your silverware?"

"Drawer next to the sink," she answered, digging out her coffee maker and a bag of ground beans. "How much should I make?"

"How many people are coming?" Gabriel asked, one hand resting on her lower back, the other taking the appliance's cord and plugging it into an outlet.

"Well, you guys and my dad and Lauren... and whoever else, I guess," she added, eyes widening slightly. "Do you think Angela would stop by, Peter? Never mind, god knows she will." Claire scooped a little into the coffee filter. "Whateve— we can make a new batch when my dad gets here. Peter, can you hand me that water filter, please?"

It didn't take long to have everything made, the three of them hovering around the kitchen and the small table. Gabriel lingered close to Claire—not that she minded. The banter between him and Peter was funny and heartwarming to watch.

She'd almost forgotten the truth of the situation—at least until there was another knock on the door. Her stomach kicked up a wave of anxious butterflies that quelled only slightly when she opened the door to see her father and his girlfriend.

"Hey, guys," Claire said with a timid smile. "Come on in."

She should have known that it wouldn't go quite as well as the morning had so far. As soon as Noah set eyes on Gabriel, and vice-versa, both men froze in place. Peter eyed the two, slowly making his way in front of Gabriel, gaze locked on Bennet.

"Dad," Claire growled, fist clenching as she pushed the door closed. "We talked about this."

Lauren set a hand on Bennet's arm, but she kept her eyes on the two men herself. "Noah..."

Bennet's jaw clenched, and Claire could tell that he had to work hard to slowly drain the tension from each individual line of his body. He was working against his instincts, Claire knew, and that would take time, but she sure as hell wouldn't allow any slips.

Claire moved in between the two groups, sharing a long look with her uncle. Peter frowned and sighed, but edged to the side. The blonde crossed her arms, glancing between Gabriel and her father, the former of which looked nervous and unsure. She tried to look as assuring and confident as possible, but this longstanding rivalry wasn't going to just disappear, no matter how much Gabriel had changed.

Some of Noah Bennet's offenses, after all, weren't even against Sylar. They were against a good man who had made a terrible mistake.

"Dad," Claire started. "Gabriel. It's not going to be easy, but you're going to have to call a truce, at the very least. Both of you are important to me. You're both stubborn, I get that, but you need to overlook the past. What happened then has no place in the world we're trying to make. Okay?"

Gabriel fidgeted, and Peter placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Bennet's eyes followed the gesture and he grimaced.

"Come on," she nudged. "Shake hands or something. We don't have very long to hash things out, and we need all the civil time we can get."

"If you say so," Gabriel muttered, taking a slow step forward and holding out his hand. Claire smiled and his face colored slightly, but he said nothing else.

Green eyes turned to her father, who looked between his daughter and the two younger men, obviously pained. Lauren looked more curious than anything, but out of her loyalty to Bennet, she stayed by his side. However, Claire didn't miss the nudge the woman gave to his ribs that knocked him forward half a step.

Bennet shot her an irritated glance, but hazel eyes turned to his daughter after a second. "I'm not happy about this."

Green eyes narrowed. "And I'm reminding you not to get on my bad side."

She could tell that he wanted to be angry, but his lips twitched into a smile. "How did you end up a Company Girl, despite my best efforts?"

"How come you're avoiding the point?" Claire retorted. "You started this, so make nice."

He sighed, but obediently held out his hand in return, shaking Gabriel's once and dropping it just as fast. He turned his eyes to the man and his face was abruptly serious. "If you hurt her, you're going to answer to me."

"If he hurts her," Peter cut in irritably. "He's going to answer to me first. And then _her_. And, if there's anything left, whoever else steps up next. Okay? Okay. I want more coffee." With that, the Petrelli pushed through the group and refilled his mug, leaving the pot empty. "Claire, where'd you put the bag? I need to make more."

"Decaf's on the second shelf," Gabriel cut in, pulling Claire's gaze. He shrugged. "We were partners in the Company."

Noah blinked, then snorted. "Special Agent Andrew Hanson. _Right._ "

The girl looked between the two and sighed. "The Company. How could I forget?" She shook her head, slapping Peter's hand away from her coffee machine. "You're going to break it, idiot. Let me."

Lauren chuckled quietly, twining her hand into Bennet's and guiding him toward the tiny kitchen table, the two sitting side-by-side and staying out of Claire's way. The blonde and her uncle bickered over the correct way to make coffee while Gabriel made himself useful by getting two more cups from the cabinet. When he noticed that his task was done and neither had made any progress on the caffeine front, he simply wedged his way between the two and started the machine himself.

Bennet watched this thoughtfully, noting the careful way he diffused the situation without words. As the coffee maker buzzed to life, Claire and Peter turned to him, both equally surprised. Gabriel rolled brown eyes and shook his head, lightly shoving Peter's shoulder and ruffling Claire's curls.

The blonde didn't seem to be irritated, though; instead, she smiled, slid into his arms and linked her hands together around his back, careless of her father watching the entire gesture. She was smiling widely, Gabriel echoing the action, and soon Peter was grinning as well, hopping up on the counter and kicking the man's shin in playful retaliation.

"Dork," the older man muttered.

"Sap," Peter retorted easily. "Coffee's done. Let's pass it out and get to business, shall we?"

"But what about—?" Bennet started, frowning.

"My mother?" he asked. "If she bothers to show up, it'll be fashionably late." Peter slid off the counter and took the coffee pot, pouring it equally between the two mugs Gabriel had procured before he added some to Claire's at the girl's silent insistence. "Bennet, Lauren, how do you take your coffee? There's no milk, but there's sugar around here somewhere."

"Bennet takes it black," Gabriel cut in, handing over one coffee cup to the man who grumbled a quiet _thanks_. It seemed to earn him points, considering Claire's smile. "Lauren?"

"Uh, sugar, if you have it. Otherwise, black is fine."

Claire pulled away from her place in Gabriel's arms, rifling through cabinets for a small ceramic pot and a spoon, placing both on the table as Peter brought over the second cup. The three also slid into place at the table, Claire seated in between the two men, Bennet and Lauren seated across from them at the tiny rectangular table.

The blonde folded her hands on her lap, fidgeting slightly, at least until she felt warm fingers twine around her own. Claire shot him an appreciative glance, squeezing his hand briefly. "So," she started, eyes turning to her father. "I assume you have a plan?"

 

* * *

 

True to form, Angela showed up unannounced but expected a half-hour later. She'd simply knocked once but didn't wait for an answer, walked in and seated herself at the head of the table, placing a manilla folder in front of her and starting in on her tirade-slash-lecture.

"Hi, nice to see you, too, Ma," Peter grumbled.

The woman fixed him with a look. "Peter, there is no time to waste with senseless greetings. If you insist on doing so, do it on your own time." She turned a tight-lipped smile to her granddaughter. "Claire, we have very little time before distractions get in the way. I'd like to get to business as quickly as possible."

Claire's eyes flickered to the door that had barely just clicked closed with its own momentum. "Is that so?"

Angela let out a short sound of amusement, giving Bennet a short nod of acknowledgement. When she finally set her gaze on Gabriel, her smile widened fractionally. "Indeed. Things will be stressful for you, but all the pieces are in place, and this will all fall into order soon enough. It seems that luck is on our side."

"You don't believe in luck," Peter muttered with a frown.

"I believe in luck when it is on my side."

Claire grinned at that. "Typical."

Angela slid the folder toward the blonde. "I helped Nathan a great deal with his political campaigns, but he also had specialists on his side. Their minds were build for analysis, correction and strategy—something that we are fortunate to find on our side in a situation such as this."

Gabriel blinked. "You mean—"

"Of course." At that, Angela finally smiled. "I may have the experience, but you, Gabriel, have the intellect, which is just as important."

"But I—"

"Should stay out of the spotlight?" The woman asked, sharing a glance with her son. "Your case was closed long ago, dear. I made sure that there would be nothing to hold you back when you finally made your way back to where you belonged."

"You bribed the police?" Lauren exclaimed, eyes wide.

"Of course not," she replied. "Bribes can be traced. Records, however, can be deleted and memories manipulated. As far as the law is concerned, Gabriel Gray is a perfectly innocent man who witnessed a terrible and tragic accident." She raised one elegant brow. "The best lies are the ones closest to the truth, after all. In this case, there is very little dishonesty involved, and so it will be believed. I am confident that the situation will pass under the radar without incident."

"Why would you do that?" Gabriel asked, eyes wide. Claire's thumb rubbed over the back of his hand under the table.

"Because you deserve a break," Peter replied. "After all the shit the Company put you through."

"And you have never been far from my thoughts," the woman added. "Your destiny has always been closely entwined with ours. This great and terrible game has very few key players, but you are most certainly one of them." Brown eyes scanned the table. "The decisions of everyone in this room has affected the future in some way, shape or form. But my generation is nearly ready to pass the baton." She inclined her head. "Peter, Claire, Gabriel—you three will build a new world for us all. I have never been much of a help to any of you, but I'm hoping to make up for my failures now. I like to think of the future as a particularly important game of chess. I am finally ready to share my strategies in the hopes that you can improve where I have faltered and correct where I have made mistakes. This is a match we cannot afford to lose, and in order to win, we are going to need your help."

The man squeezed Claire's hand, his expression tightening. "I'm not doing this for _you._ "

"I wouldn't expect you to," Angela replied calmly. "However, as it is _your_ mate who will be in the eye of the public, I should certainly hope that you will step up to the plate, for her sake—and your son's."

His jaw clenched, and Claire's fingers tightened around his in response. "Then, it's none of your business," Gabriel grumbled.

The woman leaned forward, a faint smile tilting her thin lips. "Oh, quite the contrary. I am Noah's grandmother, and as such, one of the few people who knows _exactly_ where he is. I'd say that the matter is _very_ much my business."

The man held back a growl, squeezing his eyes shut and obviously suppressing the urge to shoot back a scathing retort. Claire's other hand that had been resting in her lap went to his, unclenching his fist with patient pressure and rubbing circles into his palm. "Angela," she said warningly.

The woman stopped just shy of rolling her eyes. "That is beside the point at the moment, Claire. Noah matters, but he should be of very little effect to our plan."

"Speaking of which," Bennet cut in. "What exactly _is_ the plan?"

Her lips curled. "I'm glad you asked."

 

* * *

 

As it approached ten-thirty, Claire grew increasingly anxious. Angela, of course, noticed her frequent glances to the door, and called a halt in their planning. It was only as the assembled company milled about her apartment that the woman approached her, voice pitched low.

"If you keep behaving this way, the others will start to notice."

"I can't help being nervous," she whispered in return. "You _know_ what's going to happen. It's understandable."

"Of course I understand," Angela replied with a faint smile. "I am the one who alerted Rene to this possibility."

"He's not too enthusiastic about it."

"Well, of course he's not. He isn't as aware of current developments as we are, and he has gotten attached to the boy. He's concerned for Noah's safety, just as we are, but he doesn't yet recognize that Gabriel is more beneficial than detrimental. After today, he will, and things will be much easier for you."

Claire fidgeted. "In theory, I know that. I guess I'm just worried because I don't know when he'll be here."

As the older woman opened her mouth to comment, a quiet knock on the door froze Claire in place. Her heart rate skyrocketed, and her hands worked several times before she moved.

"Go on," Angela nudged. "Get it over with. You'll feel much better once you have."

The blonde gave a short, jerky nod, swallowing before she moved toward the entrance. Her hands shook as she opened the door, just enough to see the man outside and the child carrier he held.

"Hello, Claire," Rene said quietly. "May I?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, her eyes fixed on the small, sandy-haired boy. He was buckled into his seat but didn't seem to mind, wide, curious brown eyes looking around, gumming at his chubby fingers. When he the woman standing before him, he broke out into a wide, toothless smile.

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped Claire as she stepped aside, closing the door behind the man and giving him room to set the boy down. Claire crouched immediately, moving aside a familiar blue-felt blanket to get to the clips. She scooped Noah up in her arms, heart beating in rapid joy at the feeling of her baby in her arms again.

The baby cooed quietly as she stroked gentle fingers over his cheeks, his hair, his nose, and held him close all the while. She was barely able to tear her eyes away from him for long enough to whisper a heartfelt, "Thank you," to the Haitian.

"He is your child," he said simply, his dark eyes watching her.

"He's your child, too," she whispered. "You've raised him, cared for him when I couldn't. I can never thank you enough for that."

Rene seemed to relax slightly at that, a small smile curving his mouth, large hand touching the boy's back for a moment. "He is a joy to myself and Annalise—you need not thank me."

Claire nuzzled the little boy in her arms and nodded. "Shall we?"

The two turned, stepping out of the entryway and into the kitchen. Claire swallowed when everyone seemed to freeze, apart from herself and Angela. Rene tensed at the sight of Gabriel, and Gabriel paled slightly at the sight of Claire and the child she held. The man seemed to sway on his feet, Peter immediately reaching out to grasp his sleeve and steady him. The two shared a quick look before all eyes were, once again, returned to Claire.

"Are you sure this is wise?" Rene asked, the low pitch of his voice breaking the shocked silence.

"Maybe not, but it's _right_ ," the young woman replied. She took a step forward, letting out a hesitant sigh as she moved just close enough to her partner that she could feel the warmth of his body. Brown eyes were not focused on her, but the young person she held—the life he had contributed to making. "Gabriel?"

He stared, eyes moving from the little hand clenched in Claire's shirt to the tiny head resting on her shoulder. "You—"

"I didn't tell you, I know," she said quietly. "I didn't want you to worry about this—about meeting him. You... you _are_ okay with it, right?"

An intense gaze flickered to her face. She realized that this was one of the only times, if not _the_ only time, that she had seen him so openly afraid. "I'm not ready. I could—I could _hurt_ him."

She blinked, fighting the urge to smile, against her better judgement. "Do you want to hurt him?" She felt the telltale tension in Rene, practically radiating from him in waves. It seemed the Haitian was just as anxious about this as Gabriel was.

"No, of course not," Gabriel whispered, horrified at the thought. "But, I—"

"Then, you'll be fine," she replied with a reassuring smile. "The fact that you're concerned about this at all just proves to me what I already know."

"I'm not ready," he insisted, shooting a terrified look back at Peter, who was still watching the interaction with an intrigued and stunned expression. "I just— yesterday, I was still—"

Claire expected Peter to say something, in that moment. She even expected Angela to start on an impatient tirade about wasting time and energy, or something of the like.

Claire did not expect her father to step forward and reach out to take the boy, holding him carefully to his chest as he inspected the features of his miniature namesake.

"He looks like you, Claire," Noah said after a moment, pulling a small smile from the girl. Another long minute passed before hazel eyes behind familiar horn-rimmed glasses slid to the man so silently stunned beside her. The scrutinizing look given and received was far from unfamiliar.

The reaction was. "Looks like you, too," Bennet added finally, decisively.

Claire grinned, reaching for Gabriel's hand, which held desperately to hers. At least, it did until Bennet took a step toward him and handed him the small child, baby Noah looking bewildered at the sudden flood of attention he was receiving and his father just as shocked by the sudden presence of a child in his arms. The expression was nearly identical, Claire noticed with great amusement.

"You have to support his weight— he can't do it himself, yet," Bennet instructed in a sharp, no-nonsense tone as he moved the younger man's hands. "One here, the other here. Keep him close so he doesn't fall— that's it, just like that. Don't crush him, though. That's right. Good." He took a step back, giving a slight nod in satisfaction.

At the surprised look he received from— well, _everyone_ , the bespectacled man frowned. "I wasn't ready for Claire, but I managed. There was no one to teach me, and I made my fair share of mistakes. You're going to make mistakes, too— just not the same stupid, technical ones I did." Bennet crossed his arms over his chest.

Claire's smile widened and she let out a laugh, hugging her father before he could react and returning to Gabriel. He was still frozen in place, staring at the boy, at his _son_ , when Noah finally turned that adorable gummy smile on his father.

And so the great Gabriel Gray was defeated.

 

 

 


	19. Lying Alone No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-series.

Once Gabriel had taken hold of Noah, the baby seemed unwilling to be taken away—which was probably a good thing, as the man seemed utterly unable to let him go. Rene had relaxed only slightly as he watched Gabriel hold the boy that was just as much his own son. However, Gabriel's wide-eyed, sincere adoration for the boy seemed to reassure him slightly, if nothing else.

Claire wasn't bothered that she hadn't gotten to hold Noah for terribly long—she knew that the bonding between father and son took precedence, and that if all went well, she would have more than enough time to hold Noah later. For now, she was content to watch the blatantly awed expression of her partner as their son's curious hands discovered about this new, unfamiliar person, tugging his hair and shirt and earlobe and gumming at Gabriel's shoulder.

She kept an eye on her overenthusiastic uncle, who attempted to be sneaky about the ridiculous faces he was making at the baby from behind Gabriel's back, making Noah giggle with glee and Claire fondly shake her head, her lips curling upward more than she thought possible.

Angela had been right about one thing, at least—once Noah had arrived, it seemed that no one was interested in speaking of anything else. It was good that they had hashed out most of the plan already, even though some parts were shaky—Claire was sure she could handle any sudden twists, and if someone showed up from the future and shot her (Angela insisted vehemently that she would be just fine), well, she would survive.

For now, she had barely an hour to spend with her family before things either fell apart or fell together.

"Alright, well, let's at least move into the living room if we're going to have Noah here," Claire insisted, nudging each of them away from the table and toward the couches, picking up the mugs they left behind and putting them into the sink. She smiled wryly at the arrangement—Peter and Gabriel sitting close together on the couch, Angela sitting off to one side in an armchair. Bennet was sitting in the chair closest to Gabriel and Noah, not close enough to imply that he was comfortable, but close enough that he wasn't far from his miniature namesake, Lauren standing close behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. Rene sat directly across from the rest, posture impeccably straight, the only outward sign of his remaining tension. Claire caught his eye and gave him a reassuring smile, sitting on the arm of the couch on Gabriel's other side, her fingers drifting across the arch of her partner's shoulder and brushing against the tiny fingers of her baby, gripping with surprising strength to Gabriel's shirt.

She hated to break the calm so soon, but she knew it needed to be done. "We'll have to go soon," Claire said with deceptive calm. Inside, she was uncertain and anxious about her new introduction to the world, only minutes away. "We should get there early, right?"

"What, are you kidding?" Peter asked in surprise, looking up to give Claire an incredulous look. His expression was still open and pleased from Noah Jr's proximity, but his gaze was intense. "And give them more time to pester you before the conference even starts? No way, Claire. If anything, you get there late, if only to make sure that once you hit the podium, you can start immediately and not forget what you need to say."

Gabriel shot Peter a distracted glance, barely able to tear his eyes from his son, but it was enough that Claire could see his comprehension. "To make it even more clear that she _doesn't_ have to be there, and that her information is doing them a favor."

"Impressive," Lauren agreed. Noah Sr. looked up and gave her a thin smile—as Company agents, they had handled the press more time than they cared to remember, even if the fodder for the masses was usually anything but the truth. "You're very knowledgable about the thought process of the public, boys."

"Yeah, well, spend any amount of time digging through the thoughts of the public, and you'd get the idea pretty quickly, yourself," Peter replied with a grin. With that, his weight shifted back toward Noah and his whole demeanor seemed to brighten, back to making goofy faces and being the goober that Claire knew and loved, instead of this strange shadow of Nathan that she'd never met.

"Peter is very quick on the uptake, as is Gabriel," Angela cut in, more than willing to carry on a conversation that didn't include cooing and babbling at the infant across the room. Rene seemed very much like he was paying attention, but Claire saw as well as Gabriel did that Rene's dark eyes made frequent, shrewd glances between father and son.

Claire slid into place beside her—mate, she supposed—drawing his immediate attention. The brown eyes she had come to love regarded her with a whole new level of awe; once, it was a look of appreciation and compassion at her very presence. Now, though, it had evolved into something very primally male, regarding her with a silent promise to cherish and protect her, nor only as the woman he loved, but as the mother of the child he never expected to have.

She saw that same promise, then, when Gabriel looked from Claire to the child in his arms. Even still, he was stunned by the realization that, for once, this reflection of something infinitely precious and beautiful was something he had helped to make, instead of destroy.

When he leaned closer, his forehead pressing against hers and his eyes closing in true, perfect contentment, surrounded by the family they had somehow made, Claire was more than happy to join him for a just a few seconds of the calm before the storm.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't really much of a plan, when Claire thought back about it. There was so much discussion about the _if_ s and _maybe_ s of the situation that she was practically _expecting_ to be shot or mugged or chased by an angry mob.

In reality, the press conference went something along the lines of this:

Claire arrived five minutes late to the conference, the entire, still-destroyed area of Central Park packed absolutely _full_ of reporters, and the cameras started flashing when she hit the block. Claire was flanked by Gabriel and Peter, who the press assumed to be her bodyguards, of some sort.

For the moment, she had let them assume.

Claire climbed up onto a portable stage and faced the masses from behind a podium, clothed in a button-up blouse and dark denim, hair in a clean, simple bun that Angela had approved of, and started to speak into the multitude of microphones.

She started with her name, and then she told her story.

Well, the short, edited version, anyway.

In the end, she had said that she was a college co-ed, and that she had discovered her ability to heal when she was sixteen. The people below didn't understand, not really—they considered her to be a medical miracle.

They didn't realize that Claire's healing was one of a multitude of abilities. This was rectified swiftly when an eager reporter nearly hit Claire with a boom microphone, and the next thing they all knew, it was floating ten feet in the air, apparently of its own free will.

The screaming had hurt her ears, but Claire hadn't budged.

The subsequent calm explanation from her was taken much better than Claire had expected, though she had a sneaking suspicion that Gabriel and Peter were using that subtle ability to influence the emotions of the reporters around them. When questions were shouted out in alarm, she remained calm. The reporters, at the very least, kept themselves in control, because if a nineteen-year-old college co-ed could, then why couldn't they?

When Claire's legs got tired nearly three hours in, the invited the reporters to sit as she answered their questions, a huge crowd of smartly-dressed professionals all riveted on one petite young woman. Another hour later, when her stomach let out a complaint loud enough that it was heard by everyone present, she laughed and excused herself with a surprisingly little amount of fuss, with a promise to countless reporters that _yes_ , in fact, she would give them interviews, and _yes_ , if they sent questions to her newly-created-and-Company-monitored email address, she would answer them as best she could.

No one tried to shoot her, and no one ever knew that, half a city away, where a Haitian man and his wife fussed over an infant, Claire could have told them all the exact color of the baby's eyes.

Time passed quickly after that.

Three days in, Claire had entire fan blogs dedicated to her, as well as speculation about the other "Anomalies", as the world had taken to calling them.

A week in, she'd also amassed enough people who thought she was an abomination that they tried to pass a law against her... personally. Thousands were disappointed when the legislation fell through a month later, but no one dared to doubt the President when he informed them all that Claire had very personally saved his life a few years ago. That he couldn't identify the person who had attacked him in the first place, well, he was an older man and it must have just slipped his mind.

Four months from the conference, a photo was captured of Claire holding hands with a tall man wearing a sweatshirt as they walked back from a long day at the beach. Speculation was wild until Claire put an end to it all, informing the world via _Twitter_ in a 'shocking' confession that said, "Save the date! #hesaidyes". In days, magazines had discovered Gabriel's identity (though neither would ever really know how, though they suspected Angela had something to do with it), and the silly moniker _Clariel_ became the talk of everyone between eight and eighty.

The wedding was never public, much to Claire's fans' eternal disappointment. However, one photo was released a year later, featuring Claire in an elegant gown ( _Simply classic,_ Angela had said) and Gabriel in a suit, faces splitting with smiles and rings gleaming on their fingers as they held a small, sandy-haired toddler between them.

Personal lives aside, leaps and bounds were made toward _Anomaly Equality_ , which was both a slogan and a movement that set fire to the world. Peter Petrelli and his wife, Emma Petrelli, expanded internationally, providing jobs, references, and doing well-funded research for those considered to be Anomalies, and no one was particularly surprised when he returned home and years later became the second Senator Petrelli.

Sometimes it was still extraordinarily difficult, though. With new abilities and more Anomalies being born every day, it was a nightmare to keep track of who was who and did what. New groups of radicals called for complete segregation, some even demanding execution of the Anomalies, and not only those who were dangerous. An entirely new justice system had to be developed in complete secrecy, specialized agents trained to handle those criminals that were considered "unconventional". However, things became less strained when a man named Matthew Parkman became the Secretary of Defense. The people had confidence in him, you see—because even the younger folks knew that _no one_ could pull the wool over the eyes of Parkman.

Claire and Gabriel Gray travelled for a while, a sandy-haired boy in tow as they explored little-known areas and discovered the secrets of the modern world. Noah developed very quickly once he had Gabriel to keep him on his toes, the father always posing questions and riddles and challenged for his son that even Claire could sometimes not decipher. Father and son grew close over time, but to Gabriel's bittersweet amusement, he could never quite sway (though he never quite tried) Noah from referring to Rene as Papa. It was lucky, then, that Rene and Annalise's young daughter, Giselle, very much liked the idea of an older brother. Noah, Giselle, and Nathan (only a few years younger than Noah himself, and who kept Peter on his toes) wreaked havoc as a very fearsome triad of teething, language barriers and Early Onset Abilities.

When a well-researched and well-written book called _What to Expect When You're Expecting An Anomaly_ was released, Peter, Gabriel and Rene all grudgingly (but good-naturedly) admitted that Emma, Claire, and Annalise's time "neglecting them", as they claimed, was well-spent. They doubled back on these gracious proclamations when each of the women revealed in a very similar timeframe that secondary offspring were expected.

As it turned out, Noah Sr.'s tenacity in tracking criminals also translated well to tracking down half-chewed vegetables, even when they managed to find their way under the fridge. He did love his granddaughter Meredith, after all. Antoine and Claude weren't half bad either, really.

For lives that had been so complicated, they wound down in a surprisingly smooth manner, and with time, Claire and Gabriel graciously stepped aside to make way for their children, Peter and Emma and Rene and Annalise following their example with poise. Their children were all very gifted, but no one gift was greater than the gift of peace that they brought to the world together.

Watching their friends and children age was strange to both Gabriel and Claire, but they were both—all—still young. In this day and age, who could even tell how long normal humans could live, anyway? For now, they were content to watch the world change from their own backyards, lounging around the pool and the grass from Costa Verde, California, family and friends all close and together.

Gabriel turned to Claire, who sat close to him on the porch swing, with a small, satisfied smile. "Are you happy?"

Claire gave him a long, lingering look with green eyes glowing from the sunset, and leaned into his side with a quiet sigh and a twist of her lips. "Absolutely not."

The itch at the back of his mind made his smile grow tenfold as he processed her little white lie.

She was happy, she loved him, and she was as much his as he was hers.

For now (and forever), that's what mattered.

 

 

 


End file.
